Cool Water

by Dianne Warren

  But he doesn’t. He’s lost almost everything, but he still has a family and he knows for certain that Vicki would never, ever betray him with another man. “Forget about married men, girl. You can do way better than the likes of me.”

  “That’s honourable,” she says. “But I’m not sure about that. Anyway, see you tomorrow. Same as always.”

  Blaine watches as she goes into the post office and then comes out again flipping through several envelopes. He wonders who they could be from. Not her girlfriends, in this age of e-mail and text messaging. She crosses the street and takes the first right onto a block of new houses, split-levels with double garages and landscaping. He doesn’t want to know where she lives, but he can still see her and so he watches as she turns up the walk of the second house from the corner.

  She was just playing with me, he thinks. Now that she’s gone, it’s as clear as day.

  Blaine steps out of the truck and goes into the post office to pick up his own mail. He gets out his key, opens the stainless steel mailbox, and finds it empty. Just then Mrs. Bulin walks by and sees the open box.

  “Hi there, Blaine,” her voice says from behind the wall of boxes. “Vicki was already in for your mail. Do you think we’ll get rain anytime soon?”

  “Jesus H. Christ,” Blaine says under his breath. “When was Vicki in?” he asks Mrs. Bulin.

  “Quite a while ago,” Mrs. Bulin says. “Before noon, I think. Did you hear they had rain north of the river? Andy Patterson was to a sale at Elrose on Wednesday and he said they had three-tenths up there. He said it’s too late for the crops but a good rain might help the pastures. I didn’t think Andy looked too well. He probably shouldn’t be running around the country to sales.”

  Jesus Murphy, that woman never shuts up, he thinks. He slams the mailbox shut and goes back to his truck, fuming. Not about Mrs. Bulin’s chatter, but about her eyewitness report that Vicki was on the move. As usual.

  Penance

  In the late-afternoon heat of the Juliet school staff room, Norval waits—along with the principal and the director of education, who are both dressed in golf attire—for their job applicant to show up for her interview. “She probably got lost,” Norval offers by way of explanation. He once again peruses her letter of application, thankful that her qualifications trump Mrs. Baxter’s. He can’t understand why the other two on the hiring committee are so unconcerned about Mrs. Baxter’s campaign to weasel her way into this job, despite the fact that she has never been to anything remotely like a teachers college and would surely force the girls of Juliet into a time warp marked by crocheted toilet-roll covers and family-values rhetoric as outdated as Elvis Presley.

  He checks his watch. Their candidate is now twenty minutes late. Half an hour passes, the director and the principal obviously impatient for their golf game, forty minutes, and finally they are forced to give up. There is no discussion about Mrs. Baxter. They all know the consequence of this no-show. The director gets his car keys out of his pocket and says to the principal, “Tee time, then,” and to Norval, “One of these days you’re going to join us and discover the pleasures of golf.”

  Once they’re gone, he tosses the candidate’s resumé in the bin for shredding and considers resigning from the school board.

  The staff room phone rings. Norval hopes against hope that it’s the late job applicant calling with a good excuse, but it’s Lila.

  “Good,” she says, “I’m glad I caught you. Your cell phone is turned off, you know.”

  Norval feigns surprise at that.

  Lila wants to know if he’s done what he said he would do, which is go to the church and talk to the caretaker about the renovations. “You promised,” she adds.

  Norval doesn’t remember promising exactly. What he would really like to do is go to the hardware store and buy a lawn mower and forget about Lila’s plans. He says, “You’re talking as though these renovations of yours are a done deal.”

  “They’re not a done deal, Norval. That’s why I want you to speak with Joe. Everybody knows he runs the maintenance committee. That church is a disgrace. We can’t have the wedding there with things the way they are. Surely you agree with me.”

  Norval stops himself from saying that weddings take place in the church pretty regularly with things the way they are.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” he says.

  “I know you,” Lila says. “You won’t want to be too pushy, but you can’t expect a caretaker to have any sense when it comes to decorating.”

  To get Lila off the phone, he promises to give Joe all of her suggestions.

  “Don’t call them suggestions,” Lila says. “Insist. Speak with authority.” Then she runs through her list of what needs renovating before the church is good enough for the wedding that she has in mind, even though she’d already written it all down for him: new carpet in the foyer (or ceramic tile might be nice); new light fixtures in the basement reception hall; the pews need refinishing; and of course everything needs paint. Be specific about the colours, she tells Norval. Those are the main things. The kitchen could certainly use new china, she says, but they can rent something decent for the reception if that’s not possible. Norval knows that the maintenance committee is concerned with the mouldings on the four stained-glass windows in the church, which have been leaking in a heavy rain. Perhaps, he says, their priorities are already set, what with the state of the windows. He doesn’t say that the chance of any renovation happening before October is next to none.

  “Well, that’s fine,” Lila says, “but cosmetic upgrades are what will bring people into the church. It makes sense from a business perspective. Use that argument.”

  Once Lila is finally through (though not before reminding him to turn his cell phone on, what good is it otherwise), Norval calls the caretaker to see if he will be around. He doesn’t want to do this, doesn’t want to embarrass himself, but he suspects he will be more embarrassed if he doesn’t talk to the caretaker and Lila does.

  No one answers. Joe’s awkward voice message tells him that he is in the church somewhere, or perhaps in the yard, or perhaps out on an errand, but he is in and please leave a message. Norval waits for the beep and then tells Joe he will be by at five to talk about the wedding plans, knowing that Joe’s hours at the church commonly run into early evening. He doesn’t mention Lila’s renovations.

  Norval decides to turn Joe’s temporary absence into his opportunity to stop and buy his new lawn mower. The heat of the day isn’t waning at all, and as he walks the few blocks to the hardware store, he recalls how good the pool water felt earlier, which causes him to recall that he left his wet bathing suit sitting in his office. He decides to leave it there rather than go back to the bank for it.

  As he opens the door to the hardware store, Vicki Dolson and her pile of kids come screaming out, almost knocking him over. One of the kids is literally screaming, and Vicki is trying to comfort her as she ushers the kids to the car. It’s the second time today he’s seen Vicki Dolson, and he feels the worry and responsibility once again. He watches as she gets the kids into the car and the doors closed, the little girl screeching as though she’s being murdered, Vicki’s life the very picture of chaos. She backs the car out too quickly and almost slams into the side of a half-ton coming down the street.

  Norval notices Mrs. Jackson watching through the hardware store window. He steps inside and Mrs. Jackson says, “Oh dear,” and he soon sees that oh dear is in reference to the barn paint that has spread like a spill from a wound all over the floor at the back of the store. Right in the spot where his new electric lawn mower is located. Its wheels, along with the wheels of a gas mower and an old-fashioned manual push mower, are now sitting in paint. Mrs. Jackson looks as if she has no idea what to do.

  “I just don’t know where to start,” she says.

  Norval doesn’t want to help Mrs. Jackson clean up the paint, doesn’t want to at all, but he offers just the same. She thanks him, but says Mr. Jackson will be b
y soon, he’ll know what to do.

  “Still,” Norval says, “I think we’d better wipe up the worst of it before it starts to dry. Then you’ll have a real mess on your hands.”

  Mrs. Jackson stands staring at the spill. Norval can see that she already has paint on her shoes and her pant legs.

  “You might want to get your clothes cleaned up,” he says. “Before it’s too late.”

  “I imagine it’s already too late,” Mrs. Jackson says. She hands Norval an opened package of paper towels, and retrieves a pack of heavy-duty garbage bags from the store shelves. He gives the pool a swipe with a wad of paper towels, trying not to step in it. The paper towels push the paint around without actually absorbing much. When Norval lifts the wad of paper towel off the floor, red paint drips onto the toe of his loafer and he has to get a clean sheet to wipe it off. Again Mrs. Jackson suggests leaving the clean-up for her husband, but Norval insists, perhaps beyond reason. Mrs. Jackson wonders aloud if it would help to sprinkle wood shavings over the paint and Norval agrees that this might be worth a try.

  While she moves out of the way whatever merchandise she can manage—the lawn mowers, some garden tools, the other cans of paint that fell, thankfully, without the lids popping off—Norval walks down the block to the lumberyard and buys a bag of shavings, which he carries back to the store on his shoulder, sweating profusely into his shirt and jacket. Mrs. Jackson finds him a pair of rubber boots—again, new merchandise off the shelf—because it is apparent that it will be impossible to do this job without stepping in paint. Norval takes off his sports jacket, puts on the boots and stuffs his pant legs inside, and then he wades right into the mess and struggles to drag the refrigerator and spin dryer aside. Of course they drag paint with them, but at least the extent of what they’re dealing with is now revealed. Between the two of them, they get shavings sprinkled all over the spill and they do, indeed, absorb at least some of the paint. Norval shovels up the now-red shavings and dumps them in garbage bags, and then he attacks the floor with paper towels. When they have the worst of the disaster taken care of, Norval steps out of the boots and back into his leather shoes, and carries the bags out back and leaves them against the brick wall of the building. The same stray dog that he’d seen earlier is now sniffing at trash cans in this alley, and he stares at Norval just as he did before.

  Mrs. Jackson keeps saying she can’t thank Norval enough and insists that she and Mr. Jackson can take it from here, and so Norval finally does what he came to do, which is manoeuvre his shiny new lawn mower up the aisle toward the front of the store. He notices that it’s leaving red tire tracks, so he flips it upside down and gives the tires a rub with more paper towel. Mrs. Jackson, who follows Norval up the aisle wiping paint marks from the floor, tries to convince him to leave the lawn mower until she can get it properly cleaned, but Norval doesn’t want to wait. He tells Mrs. Jackson that the paint on the tires won’t make a bit of difference to how the mower cuts the grass, so she gives him a whopping discount, and thanks him again for helping with the paint.

  “That Vicki Dolson is a nice enough girl,” Mrs. Jackson says, “and she’s got her hands full, that’s for sure. She offered to help clean up, but she won’t be back. How she can afford to buy anything . . . well, I’m sure you know all about that.”

  Once again Norval feels the weight of what he knows, and Mrs. Jackson must recognize the look on his face because she says, touching his arm, “Such a difficult job you have, Norval.” He simply nods and leaves the store, wheeling the lawn mower in front of him, with his jacket draped over the handles. He has red paint on his hands, and when he looks down he sees a spot on his pant leg, another on the sleeve of his shirt. Red for guilt, he thinks, how damned obvious. He wonders if, now that his clothes are probably ruined anyway, he should go back to the store and have Mrs. Jackson daub sample spots of all Lila’s preferred colours for the renovations on him. Come to think of it, the red colour he’s already wearing would probably fit with Lila’s idea of a more modern look for the church. He recalls seeing cranberry on the list, along with taupe and olive green.

  Norval pushes the lawn mower along the sidewalk, over cracks and gouges and through unmarked intersections, until he comes to the neat-looking United church, with its beige lap siding and its caragana hedge on three sides. An arch-shaped sign on the lawn names the church as St. Andrews, and informs of Sunday service at eleven o’clock with the reverend Mary Marshall at the pulpit. Juliet shares the reverend with three other communities and gets her only once a month. The other Sundays, a lay minister takes the service. Sometimes, the lay minister is Norval.

  He looks up at the roof of the church and sees that the shingles on the south side are curling up. The paint is peeling on the south side too, and Norval has the reluctant thought that perhaps Lila is right, the church is in need of a touch-up, although not because of Rachelle’s wedding. He wheels the lawn mower around to the side of the building and parks it by the door that leads to the basement reception hall and Joe’s office. Norval tries the door and it’s open. Joe must be here, then. Norval wonders briefly about the wisdom of leaving the new lawn mower outside unattended, but it’s hidden from the street by the caragana hedge.

  From the side door landing, he has the choice of going downstairs into the hall, or up four steps to the chapel door. This is the minister’s entrance, and leads to the pulpit and the choir loft, if you can call the ten or so banquet chairs lined up behind the pulpit a choir loft. Because the basement is dark, Norval chooses to go up the steps, but when he enters the chapel, Joe isn’t there either. He decides to wait. He sits in the front row of pews and sees that the list of hymns from last Sunday is still on the board, among them one of his favourites, “Blessed Be the Tie That Binds.” He tries to imagine himself sitting here, in this very spot, having just watched his daughter tie herself to matrimony with Kyle Hoffert. Will he be able to act happy and blessed, for Rachelle’s and Lila’s sakes?

  He looks at the stained-glass windows, two on either side of the church. Although the windows are not at all fancy and are patterned with simple geometric shapes, mostly green and yellow, they are pretty, especially on the west side with the late-afternoon sun shining through them. He thinks that maybe this is the first time he’s ever sat in the chapel by himself. He’s practised his sermon here a few times, but with Lila watching and writing her comments on a pad of paper. Notes, she called them, which she’d learned how to give in her year at theatre school.

  Norval checks his watch again. He really should call Lila and let her know he’s waiting for Joe. She’ll have dinner ready. He takes his phone out of his pocket, turns it on and dials his home number. When Lila says hello, he surprises himself by not saying anything. “Hello?” Lila says again, and again he doesn’t answer. He’s not sure why. Perhaps he doesn’t want to hear the sound of his voice echoing banalities in the empty little church. He does know that he feels quite a sense of satisfaction as he pushes the Power button off and puts his phone back in his pocket. And for the next while he loses track of time and sits by himself in the quiet with the sun coming through the west windows, spraying oddly coloured light around the room.

  Change of Heart

  An Empty House

  When Blaine pulls into the yard at home, he doesn’t see Vicki’s car. He calls out as he walks into the house, but there’s no answer. Not even Shiloh is home. He checks the voice mail to see if Vicki has phoned, but there’s only a message from Hank Trass, wanting to know if by any slim chance Blaine is home, and if so, whether he’d mind giving a hand gathering calves from along the railway tracks. There’s no time on the message indicating when Hank called. It’s probably too late, Blaine thinks, but he gives Hank a call back to check, and there’s no answer.

  As Blaine stands by the phone, he sees the tubs of beans on the kitchen floor, and the two blanchers on the counter. There’s a white tea towel on the counter and the way it’s been tossed there instead of hung on the towel bar annoys him so much
he feels as though he could strangle someone with it. He picks it up and hangs it where it should be, and as he does so it reminds him of Justine’s white T-shirt, and in that moment the towel and the beans and the blanchers and the garden and Vicki and the kids become such a weight, such a terrible crushing weight. He would think he were having a heart attack, except the weight is everywhere: on his chest and his head and his thighs, his whole body. He looks at the tubs of beans and he thinks, Vicki is right, a crop of beans from a vegetable garden, what’s the point? What’s the point of beans when you can’t grow anything else? It’s all just too fucking pathetic. He’s pathetic, worse than the alcoholic foreman, and the thought of how close he came to making a complete ass of himself is humiliating. Justine is probably on her phone right now telling some other girl-engineering-student about the fun she had with him on the way into town, fun with an old hick out here in Hicksville. The beans stare up at him from the kitchen floor and he decides to do his wife a favour. He carries them outside, one tub at a time, and he throws them all in a pile in the yard. Then he soaks the beans thoroughly with kerosene and throws a match on the pile. He watches as thick, choking black smoke rises into the air, and when he’s sure the beans are going to burn he goes back into the house. On the way in he looks at the rain gauge that’s attached to the railing on the step. He does this out of habit. There’s nothing in the gauge but dust and bits of chaff. Anyway, what does it matter? Even if it was the right time of year for rain, it wouldn’t fix his problems.