by Gail Bowen
When he spotted me, Keith took me in his arms. “It’s good to see you, Jo,” he said.
“It’s good to see you,” I said, and I meant it.
We all ate far too much. Once, the Bessborough buffets had featured butter sculptures and chefs in white hats carving hams that glistened with clove-studded fat. The menu had been scaled down and healthied up for the nineties, but the food was still good, and as we walked out of the hotel, Keith offered me his arm. “Care to undo the damage we just did to ourselves?”
It was a perfect early-fall day: cool enough for Angus to run along the jogging path that snakes beside the South Saskatchewan River, but mild enough for Taylor, bright as a butterfly in her red-and-orange sweater, to throw herself on the grass and roll down the hill towards the river. Keith and I sat on a bench near the fountain to watch, and as we watched, we talked about our lives.
Keith’s had recently undergone some fairly dramatic changes. After years in Ottawa, he’d come back to Saskatchewan to manage a high-powered investment company. He was a lawyer by profession, but he’d spent much of his working life in the backrooms of Tory politics. I’d spent enough time in the backrooms to know that the political world is parochial, fevered, exhausting, nasty, and addictive. Keith said he was delighted with the change, but I couldn’t imagine he would be happy away from the melee, and I said so.
He smiled ruefully. “You’re the only who’s seen through me. On paper, it’s a great decision: it’s secure; the money’s unbelievable; people won’t flee when they see me walk into a cocktail party. And I must admit, it will be nice not to have to listen to some snot-nosed neo-con explain the political process to me. All the same, I’m going to miss it.”
“You can still be involved,” I said.
“I’ve got too many enemies to be an éminence grise; besides I think my new company would prefer that I keep a low profile.” He shrugged. “I’ll work it out. One good thing: it’s going to be great to be closer to you.”
I didn’t respond.
Keith touched my elbow. “Are you and Alex still together?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“That doesn’t sound like you.”
“Maybe not,” I said. “But it’s the truth.”
“Want me to change the subject?”
“Yeah,” I said, “I do.”
For a few minutes we sat in silence, enjoying the sunshine. When Keith turned to me, his smile was rueful. “We must be getting old, Jo: running out of conversational topics.”
“I’ve got one,” I said. “Justine Blackwell. Did you know her?”
Keith looked sombre. “That was a terrible thing.”
“And close to home for us,” I said. “Justine and Hilda McCourt were friends. Hilda was staying at our house the night Justine died. In fact, they were together just before she was killed.”
“That must have been a nasty shock for Hilda,” Keith said. “Is she handling it all right?”
“You know Hilda,” I said. “She’s rolled up her shirtsleeves and dug in to help sort out some problems with Justine’s estate.”
“Good,” Keith said. He frowned. “What’s that thing about being busy Hilda always says?”
“It’s a quotation from Catharine Parr Traill,” I said. “In cases of emergency, it’s folly to throw your hands in the air and wail in terror – better to be up and doing.”
Keith laughed. “Words to live by. Now, to answer your question. Over the years, Justine and I were at a lot of the same functions, but except for the usual pleasantries, I never really talked to her. I did know her husband, though. Dick Blackwell was a big contributor to the party, and he was a great guy – the best. I always thought he deserved a better personal life than the one he ended up with.”
“ ‘Personal life’ meaning his marriage?”
Keith sighed. “Yeah, ‘personal life’ meaning his marriage. One should be charitable about the dead, but Justine wasn’t much of a wife. She was, however, one hell of a lawyer.” He shook his head and smiled. “I saw her in action once. She was amazing. She had exactly the right temperament for criminal law: combative but cool. She was passionate when it suited her purpose, but every display of emotion was calculated: just enough outrage or fervent belief or shining-eyed hope to do the job, and not one iota more.” Keith turned his head and glanced at me. “She never broke a sweat.”
“Not with her marriage either,” I said.
“No, not with her marriage, and not with her children. After Dick died, there was a rumour that Justine had been having an affair. I never believed it – not because she was such a dutiful wife, but because she didn’t have that kind of passion.”
“You didn’t like her much, did you?”
Keith sat up. “Actually, I did like her. She was smart, she was beautiful, and, on the occasions we were together, she was good company. I just think Dick Blackwell would have had a happier life if he’d married someone else. Given the circumstances, that sounds harsh, but it’s the truth – at least as I see it. If you want more details, you could talk to Dick’s old law partner.”
“No,” I said, “your opinion’s good enough for me.”
“Hearing that was worth the price of breakfast.”
His gaze was steady, and I was relieved when Taylor came peeling up the hill. She was sweaty and dirty and happy. “Is it time to see Madeleine yet?”
“After we scrub off six layers of dirt, it is. Let’s find your brother and go back to Greg and Mieka’s and hit the showers.”
Angus found us, or rather, he found Keith. They walked ahead of us on the path talking about their common passion, football. By the time we hit the Bessborough parking lot, they had decided to get tickets for the Huskies game that afternoon. After Taylor climbed into the back and Angus slid into the driver’s seat, Keith turned to me. “Should I get a ticket for Taylor? I don’t think I’ll have to twist Greg’s arm too hard to get him to come. You and Mieka might enjoy some time alone.”
“It’s worth a try,” I said. I bent down to the car window. “Taylor, Mr. Harris has an invitation for you …”
“I heard,” she said. “And I want to go.”
“Sounds like it’s settled,” Keith said.
When we said goodbye in the Bessborough parking lot, Keith held my hand a second longer than necessary, then he kissed me on the cheek. “Thanks for the morning, Jo. I hope it’s the first of many.”
Greg was waiting with the Polaroid when we came into Mieka’s room. He wanted some pictures of the kids with Madeleine. Angus went first. He held her in one arm, tight against his body, the way his coach had made him hold a football for an entire weekend after a costly fumble. When he handed the baby off to Taylor, she was wildly enthusiastic. For ten minutes, she sat in the corner with Madeleine, crooning and chatting. When her eyes betrayed her restlessness, Greg said he’d buy the kids a burger before the game, and after a whirl of goodbyes, Mieka and I were left alone.
We pushed Madeleine’s bassinet in front of the window, pulled our own chairs close, and gave ourselves over to the singular pleasures of two women wholly absorbed by a new baby. September sunshine pooled in a circle around us; air crisp with the smell of fall leaves and late gardens drifted through the open window, and my daughter and I swapped stories about childbirth and the primal pleasure of holding a child to the breast. In the larger world of the hospital, there was death and fear and pain and suffering, but in the safety of our small circle, there were only dreams and hopes and an unspoken thanksgiving that somehow the two of us had managed to navigate the risky shoals of the mother-daughter relationship and arrive at this moment together.
The drive back to Regina was pleasant and uneventful. All the way home, we saw farmers still out in the fields. It was an excellent crop, and nobody was taking any chances. In a little over a month it would be Thanksgiving. Maybe Greg and Mieka could bring Madeleine down. Keith could come too. If Alex and I could work things out, he and Eli could come. And, of course, Hilda and
Leah. It was time for us to reap what we had sown, and it seemed the farmers weren’t the only ones who’d be harvesting a bumper crop that year.
It was a little after 9:00 when we pulled up in front of our house. Taylor was sound asleep. As soon as I got out of the car, I could hear Rose barking inside.
Angus got out of the back seat. “What’s up with Rose?” he asked.
“She’s just glad to see us,” I whispered. “Go in and let her out, would you? I’m going to try to carry Taylor up to bed without waking her.” I leaned into the back seat and picked up my daughter. When I started up the walk, Angus was still fiddling with the front door.
He turned around and mouthed the words, “It’s locked.”
“Where’s Hilda?”
He looked at me in exasperation. “Mum, I just got here too.”
I handed Taylor to Angus, took my key out of my purse, and opened the front door. As soon as I stepped into the hall, I knew something was wrong. The area by the door was covered in dog faeces and urine.
Angus was behind me in the door; Taylor was in his arms, mercifully still sleeping. A wave of panic hit. “Take Taylor down to the family room and put her on the couch,” I said.
My son stared at the mess in the front hall, but didn’t say a word. He walked towards the family room. I took a deep breath and started up the stairs. My legs were leaden. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that something had happened to Hilda. I felt a dozen emotions, but the overwhelming one was guilt. Hilda was eighty-three years old. Unwilling to face her mortality, I had stood by as she had undertaken a task too onerous for a woman decades younger than she was; then I had left her alone.
The door to her bedroom was shut. My hand was shaking as I turned the knob. The image I’d conjured up of Hilda, dead in her bed, victim of a heart attack that carried her away in the night, was so vivid that, for a beat, I couldn’t take in the reality. She wasn’t there. Her bed was made up, the sheets and blanket pulled so tight under the chenille spread that a dime would have bounced off them. I ran down the hall to the bathroom. It was pristine: sink shining; towels lined up on the towel rack; fresh roll of toilet paper on the holder. For a foolish and relief-filled moment, I let myself think that everything was all right, that Hilda had just become so absorbed in her delvings into Justine Blackwell’s affairs that she had lost track of time. Then, for the second time in forty-eight hours, I turned and saw my son behind me, white-faced and shaking.
“She’s in the kitchen, Mum.”
“Is she …?”
He shook his head miserably. “I don’t know.” We started down the hall, but Angus turned into my room.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“To call 911,” said the son whom I’d accused more than once of lacking common sense.
“Good,” I said. “After you get them, call Alex.”
I ran downstairs. Hilda was sprawled by the back door. She was still in the outfit she’d changed into Saturday night before we left: sandals, apple-green pedal pushers, hot-pink-and-green striped shirt. It was as if the movie I’d been playing in my mind since I heard Rose barking had suddenly become real. There were, however, significant differences between the nightmare and the reality. Even in my worst imaginings, I hadn’t seen Hilda’s face. She was ashen and, for the first time since I’d known her, expressionless. Her mouth was slack, and her eyes unseeing. The other variation was a critical one. In those first, ghastly moments, I had assumed Hilda had been felled by a stroke or a heart attack, but the blood pooled behind her head, and the blood on the croquet mallet thrown to the floor beside her, told a different story. Hilda’s body hadn’t failed her; she had been attacked. When I put my fingers to her throat and felt a faint pulse, I thanked God.
Angus came into the kitchen. “They’re on their way,” he said. “I couldn’t get Alex, so I called Jill. I thought I could go to the hospital with you.” His voice trailed off. He was staring at Hilda. Suddenly, his face contorted in anger. “What the fuck did they think they were doing with that towel?”
I followed the direction of his gaze. One of our kitchen towels had been folded and placed under Hilda’s head.
Angus’s voice broke. “What kind of person would do that? Smash someone’s skull in, then make a pillow for her head.”
The next minutes had the jerky urgency of a movie made with a hand-held camera. As the paramedics fell to their work, they peppered me with questions: What was Hilda’s name? Her age? Had I moved her? Had I placed the towel under her head? Did I know what had happened? Had she been conscious at all since I found her? As I answered, my voice was lifeless. I couldn’t take my eyes off the activity surrounding my friend. It was purposeful but alien. An oxygen mask had been slapped on Hilda’s face, and one of the paramedics, a young man, was kneeling beside her with state-of-the-art equipment that calibrated her pulse, respiration, blood pressure, and temperature. In a careful, calm voice, the young man called out numbers that I knew were related to Hilda’s vital signs, but I was too ignorant to interpret them.
Two uniformed policemen arrived. They had their own questions, and I did my best to answer them, but I didn’t have much information to give. When they were satisfied that I’d told them all I could, they began to check out my house, looking, they said, for signs of forcible entry or something the attacker might have left behind.
One of the paramedics bent and shone a pencil flashlight into Hilda’s eyes, all the while calling her name, trying, I guess, to rouse her to consciousness. A medical collar was fixed around Hilda’s neck, and an intravenous was started in her right arm. Finally, the paramedics slid her onto a kind of board. That’s when I noticed the dark stain in the crotch of her pedal pushers. It was the final indignity: at some point, my proud friend had wet herself.
“No,” I said.
The paramedic closest to me cast me a sidelong glance. “What?”
“She wouldn’t want anyone to see her like that.” I took off my sweater and placed it carefully so that it covered the stain. By the sink, the younger of the two policeman was wrapping our old croquet mallet in plastic; he, too, carried out his task with exquisite care.
The paramedics began to strap Hilda to the stretcher, and the questions started up again: Did she have any allergies? Any health problems? What medications was she on? Could I check her room and bring any prescription drugs with me to the hospital? When they lifted her and started for the front door, I turned to my son.
“You’ll have to stay here,” I said. “Jill must have been delayed, but she’ll be along. I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.” I kissed him on the cheek. “I love you,” I said.
He nodded numbly.
The paramedics wouldn’t let me ride with Hilda. I had to sit in the front seat. The sirens were wailing, and the driver didn’t make any attempt to talk. It was a relief not to have to deal with another human being. As we sped across the Albert Street bridge, I was overwhelmed with guilt. I had promised Hilda I’d call from Saskatoon, but I’d forgotten. I had a clutch of good excuses: my excitement about the baby; Taylor’s boundless enthusiasm; my reunion with Keith; my need to be with Mieka. All my rationalizations made perfect sense; none changed the fact that I hadn’t picked up the phone.
As we pulled into the ambulance bay at Pasqua Hospital, I knew that I would live with that sin of omission for the rest of my life. I followed behind as Hilda was wheeled through the E.R. The medical people exchanged information. Most of it was indecipherable, but the fragments I understood were terrifying: estimated 30 per cent blood loss; thready pulse; pupils sluggish to light; extremities cold.
A nurse stopped me at the double doors that opened into the treatment rooms. Her words were diplomatic, but the message was clear: the experts were taking over; I would just be in the way. I turned back and, for the first time, I took in the scene in the waiting room.
It was Sunday night, and the place was filled with the pain of other people’s lives: a filthy, wiry man with the crazed eyes o
f a prophet or a solvent-drinker; a terrified father with a feverish little boy; two uniformed police officers with a young woman who was very drunk and whose arm hung at an unnatural angle from her shoulder; a teenaged couple with a croupy baby; and a dozen other soldiers in the Army of the Sick and the Unlucky. I found a chair facing the doors behind which Hilda had disappeared. If she needed me, I’d be close at hand.
There was a pile of magazines, soft with age and use, on the table next to me. The magazine on top was titled Southern Bed and Breakfast. The prospect of losing myself in a world of magnolias, overhead fans, and silver filigreed holders for iced-tea glasses was seductive, but try as I might, I couldn’t close the curtain on the human comedy playing itself out around me. An orderly was leading the wild-eyed man down the hallway; the feverish boy had begun to whimper and cry for his mother. The young woman with the hanging arm had turned against the police who had brought her in. All she was interested in now was getting patched up so she could leave. With her good arm, she was pounding on the chest of the younger of the cops, and saying, “What kind of fuckin’ doctor are you, anyway?” He bore the assault with patience and grace.
Time passed at a snail’s pace. Whenever the intercom crackled or a man or woman in medical gear appeared in the room, my heart leapt. But the name called was never mine, and as the minutes ticked by, panic threatened to overwhelm me. When Detective Robert Hallam came through the emergency-room door, my first thought was that he had arrived as backup for the police officers with the abusive woman, but although he nodded to them, he kept on coming until he got to me.
In his canary-yellow button-down shirt and Tilley slacks, he seemed an unlikely candidate for knight in shining armour, but, as it turned out, he was able to rescue me. He sat down in the chair next to mine.
“I’m sorry about Miss McCourt,” he said.
My words came in a torrent. “Have you heard how she is? No one’s said a word to me since I got here, and by now someone should know something.”