The Early Investigations of Joanne Kilbourn

by Gail Bowen

  “Nina and Us,” it said in my handwriting on the back of the photo. And now, after thirty years of wounds and alienation and unfinished business, we were together again. It was, I thought as I went over to take the kettle off the burner, enough to make you believe in the workings of cosmic justice.

  CHAPTER

  3

  The next morning I awoke to the smell of coffee perking and bacon frying. In the kitchen my son Peter and Johnny Mathis were singing “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.” I rolled over and looked at the clock. I still had fifteen minutes before I had to get up. So I burrowed down in the warmth of my double bed and thought about my kids and Christmas.

  The holidays hadn’t been an easy time for my family. Four years earlier, my husband, Ian, had died in the week between Christmas and New Year’s, and the year before this one I had spent the holidays recovering from an attempt to kill me that had almost succeeded. Not exactly material for a remake of It’s a Wonderful Life.

  But we had begun a new life in a new city, and I was optimistic. My sons and I had been in the house we’d rented on Osler Street since July. In the sixties, when it had been built, houses like this one had been called split-level ranchers. It was a solid house on a well-treed lot near the university. A Milton scholar who was spending a sabbatical year in England had built it himself, and apparently he had an affection for generous spaces and sunlight. In the months since we’d moved in, I’d thanked this man I’d never met a hundred times. His house had smoothed a rocky passage for me.

  There were a handful of logical reasons why the move to Saskatoon, a hundred and fifty miles north of my home in Regina, had been a good idea. My two oldest children were enrolled at the university here, and the political science department had offered me a chance to teach a senior class in the contemporary politics of our province. The fact that the appointment was for one year only was, oddly enough, a plus. No commitments, no committee work, so I had time to finish the biography of the man who had been my friend and the leader of our party. Logic. But the real explanation for our coming couldn’t be calibrated on a scale of reason. The year before we moved, bad things had happened in our old house, and in my bones, I had known we had to get out for a while.

  As I sat listening to the cheerful, tuneless voice of my son, I smiled. This Christmas on Osler Street was going to be a good Christmas. I rolled over and pulled the blankets close. It didn’t get much better than this. But as Gracie Slick used to say, “No matter how big or how soft your bed is, you still have to get out of it.” It was December twenty-second, and I had things to do.

  Half an hour later, when I went down to the kitchen, showered and dressed for a run, Peter was slipping eggs out of the frying pan onto a plate, and his brother was feeding his toast crusts to our dogs.

  “Perfect timing,” said Peter. “Two more minutes in the pan and they would have been what Dad used to call whore’s eggs, black lace around the edges and hard as a rock at the centre.”

  “Whenever did Dad say that?” I asked.

  “At the fishing camp up in Manitoba when we’d go there with the guys. He told me not to say it in front of you because you’d think it was crude.”

  “Well,” I said, looking at the eggs on my plate, “he was right about that. But it’s a moot point. These eggs are perfect, Peter. You do know, don’t you, that I’ve already bought all your Christmas presents?”

  Peter poured me a cup of coffee. “I want to borrow your car tonight. Christy and I are going to The Nutcracker and it’s going to be tough for us to make a grand entrance if we drive up in the king of junkers.” He sat down opposite me. “One of those presents you got me wouldn’t happen to be a new car, would it?”

  “Nope,” I said, spearing a piece of bacon, “no new car, but you can have the Volvo as soon as I’m through with it today. In the spirit of the holiday, I’ll even throw in a coupon I’ve got for a free car wash and wax.”

  “Careful, Mum, those coupons don’t grow on trees. When will you be finished, anyway?”

  “Let’s see. First, I’m going to take the dogs down to the river bank and run off this terrific breakfast. Then I’m getting a ski rack put on the car to carry the secret skis we’re all getting for Christmas for our secret ski holiday at Greenwater. Then I’m going to meet Sally Love and humiliate myself at the gym. Then probably I’ll come home and collapse. You can have the car by one o’clock.”

  “That’ll be okay. Angus wants me to take him Christmas shopping. He can go to the car wash with me and vacuum out the back seat. It’s really gross. He’s still got Halloween candy back there.”

  “A mark of maturity, being able to hold on to candy for almost two months,” I said to my youngest son.

  He reached over and took a piece of bacon off my plate. “Oh, you couldn’t eat the stuff that’s back there. Most of it’s got dog hair on it.”

  I shuddered. “I don’t think I want to know about this. Let’s talk about something else. How much Christmas shopping have you got left to do?”

  Angus smiled innocently. “All of it.”

  I moved my plate toward him. “Here, have another piece of bacon. You need it more than I do.”

  I rinsed my dishes and put them in the dishwasher. The dogs were by the door looking at me anxiously.

  “Anyone want to go for a walk?” I asked as I did every morning. As soon as I opened the drawer to get their leashes they went crazy with pleasure. They did that every morning, too. None of us liked surprises.

  The morning passed happily. It was a grey day, but the dogs didn’t mind, and neither did I. Along the river, there were lots of clear spaces where the brush had kept the snow off the path. It was a good day for the dogs and me to run and feel the fresh air knife at our lungs. When I stopped to look at the South Saskatchewan curling toward Lake Winnipeg, the river’s cold beauty made my breath catch in my throat.

  The man at the garage got the ski racks on first crack, and when I went to pay him, he smiled and said it was a Christmas present for a new customer. As I pulled into the parking lot across from Maggie’s, I was filled with seasonal optimism about the human condition. It really was the time for peace on earth and good will toward one another.

  Two hours later, I knew I’d peaked too soon.

  The seventies gave us earth colours and macramé and places like Maggie’s: private clubs where women could work out or learn about Oriental art or sit over plates piled with sprouts and talk about sisterhood. People didn’t talk about sisterhood at Maggie’s any more, but the food was still good, and the exercise classes were the best in the city.

  Sally was sprawled over a chair in the lobby when I came in. She was wearing boots, blue jeans, a man’s shirt and an old woollen jacket that looked vaguely military. Her long blond hair was loosely knotted at the nape of her neck. Over her shoulder she had slung an exquisite leather bag – the same bag that had hung over Hugh Rankin-Carter’s shoulder the night before.

  I leaned forward and traced a line in the stitchery. “Did Hugh Rankin-Carter earn a spot on the Wall of Fame?” I asked.

  Sally grinned. “Not on my wall,” she said, standing up. “He was pretty taken with Stuart, though. God, speaking of Stu, guess what I caught him doing last night at the gallery? Measuring his penis – the one on the wall. For comparative purposes, I guess,” she said mildly. “Listen, class doesn’t start until noon. Shall we go to the coffee shop and get in a little goof and gossip time?”

  “Absolutely,” I said.

  The coffee shop at Maggie’s was deserted. By the cash register a cardboard Mrs. Santa held up an announcement that the restaurant would be closing at noon for the staff Christmas party. The manager gave us a drop-dead look when we came in. She didn’t warm to us when we refused menus and ordered a pot of Earl Grey and a bottle of mineral water.

  She was back almost immediately with our order, as if to impress us with the importance of moving along quickly. But Sally wasn’t in a mood to be hurried. As the woman stood behind her, Sa
lly fished around in the new leather bag and pulled out a bottle opener and a package of rice cakes.

  “Allergies.” She shrugged, looking at the manager. The woman turned on her heel and left us alone.

  “I’d forgotten about your allergies,” I said, “or maybe I just thought you’d left them behind somewhere.”

  “No, I’m worse than ever. The world seems to get more dangerous every year.”

  I shuddered, and Sally looked at me curiously.

  “No use worrying about it,” she said. “I just have to be careful.” She ripped the cellophane from her rice cakes. Her nails were unpolished, and her hands looked strong and capable. “Anyway, it could be worse. This doctor I saw in Santa Fe told me about a patient of his who was allergic to semen. Died on her wedding night. She started going into acute anaphylactic reaction: wheezing, gasping for air. Her husband just thought she was having this incredible orgasm, and he kept pumping away like crazy – super stud.”

  She held out a rice cake to me. “Here, eat. These things are guaranteed to make you live forever.”

  “Or make it seem like forever,” I said, grimly. “God, poor woman … poor man. How did they figure out what happened?”

  “Apparently she had a history of allergies, and Jo, when the ambulance came, the husband was sitting stark naked on the side of the bed with his weapon still smoking.”

  For a beat, we just looked at each other and then we both burst out laughing.

  “Oh, Sal,” I said, “it’s so good to be together again. Now that we’re in the same city, maybe we can make up for all the years we lost.”

  Sally reached across and patted my hand. “We’ll make up for them, Jo, but not in Saskatoon. I’m not going to stick around here too much longer.”

  I was surprised at the sense of loss I felt, but I tried to sound philosophical. “Considering the welcome you got at the gallery last night, I can’t say that I blame you.”

  Sally took a long sip of her mineral water. “Oddly enough I’d decided to leave before all this happened. When I approached Stu about doing the Erotobiography, I told him I wanted it to be a kind of parting gift for the city. You know I’ve lived here on and off for twenty-five years.”

  “At the moment, I don’t think this city deserves a parting gift,” I said.

  “I’ve done some good work here. You know, Jo, it’s going to be tough leaving. I’ve owned that studio on the river bank since I was twenty. Anyway, it’s time. That last year I was with Stu, I made such bad art. Everything just turned grey: me, my work, the world. I wish I could buy back everything I did that year and burn it. It’s so choked. You can’t breathe when you look at it.” She shook her head in disgust.

  “I never should have married him. Stu’s a nice guy and all, but he’s such a stiff. I must have been crazy.”

  “You have Taylor,” I said.

  Her face brightened. “Yes, I have Taylor, and since I left Stu and that house, I’m making some decent art again. The pieces seem to be falling into place. Did you ever see that gallery I own on Fourteenth Street?”

  “All the time. In fact, just last night I was telling Clea Poole how much I admire the lady lion with the Christmas wreath you’ve got out front.”

  Sally raised an eyebrow. “The lion’s about the only thing worth admiring at womanswork now. The place is an embarrassment – all that seventies clitoral epiphany stuff. Clea’s really lost her judgement. Anyway, there’ll be something new there soon. There’s a new owner.”

  “A new owner?” I repeated.

  “Yeah, a surgeon. I got a call while I was in Santa Fe from the real estate people. They were desperate to track me down. This woman I’ve sold it to wants the gallery as a Christmas present for her husband. Cash. No dickering. I stopped off to sign the papers on my way in from the airport last night.”

  “What about Clea?” I asked. “Doesn’t she have to agree to the sale?”

  Sally looked puzzled for a minute. “Why? She just manages the place. I’m the owner. Anyway, it’ll be good for Clea – get her out of her warm little cocoon and give her a chance to see what’s happening in the big bad art world. Don’t look at me like that, Jo. I’ve been carrying Clea Poole for twenty years. If the good doctor hadn’t come along, I probably would have carried her for another twenty. But this offer came out of nowhere. It really seemed like a sign that the time had come to make some changes.”

  “A providential nudge?” I asked.

  Sally grinned. “Yeah, that’s it – a providential nudge.”

  “Well,” I said, “Robertson Davies says it’s spiritual suicide to ignore these pushes from fate.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Sally said. “I wish Robertson Davies, whoever he is, would tell Clea I sold the gallery. When she hears about womanswork, I’d rather he was in the line of fire than me.” She stood up and stretched lazily. “But that’s this afternoon’s problem. Right now, let’s get into the gym and do it, Jo. You never know when you’re going to meet the man with the smoking gun.”

  When Maggie’s had opened, much had been made of the fact that the woman who designed the building had muted the light in the changing rooms “to forgive what we perceive as the imperfections of our bodies.” As I inched my leotard on, I thought how humane that architect had been. And then I looked at Sally Love.

  Naked, forty-five years old, Sally’s body still didn’t need forgiving. She was tanned golden everywhere, perfect everywhere. No stretch marks. No sags. No cellulite. Perfect. She pulled up her body suit and turned to me.

  “Ready?” she asked.

  “As I’ll ever be,” I said.

  “So,” she said, “let’s get in there and shuffle it around a bit.”

  As soon as I walked into the gym, I knew we’d be doing more than shuffling it around. The room was filled with women whose bodies were like Sally’s: sleek, hard-muscled, shining in spandex. And they all seemed younger than either of us by at least a decade.

  The instructor, a tiny redhead in peppermint-striped cotton, slid a tape into her ghetto blaster and said, “This is a super-fit class, but if you can’t cut it, all I ask is that you women keep moving. By the way, my name is Charlene.”

  I leaned across to Sally and whispered, “Did you ever notice how many aerobics instructors are named Charlene? I think it’s kind of menacing.”

  Sally grinned and started to say something, but then the music soared and we were away.

  By the time we came to the last song, an aerobic “Joy to the World,” I was slick with sweat and exhausted, but Sally was glowing. On the wall of the gym were signs: “If It’s the Last Dance, Dance Backwards,” “You Can’t Turn Back the Clock, But You Can Rewind It.” As I watched Sally high kicking to the beat of the music, her blond hair tied back in a ponytail and her face set in concentration, I thought that she didn’t need any inspirational signs. All on her own, she’d discovered a way to make time stand still.

  When we finished our floor exercises, Sally stayed behind to do some relaxation technique she’d picked up in Santa Fe. That’s how it happened that I was the first one to see Clea Poole.

  She was sitting on a bench in the changing room, with her back ramrod straight and her hands folded in her lap. She was wearing a handsome grey wool coat. All around her, young women were peeling off brightly coloured body suits, laughing, gossiping; Clea in her cloth coat was set apart, a moth among the butterflies.

  When I went over and said hello to her, she looked at me with dead uncomprehending eyes.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  She didn’t answer.

  I knelt beside her and touched her hand. “I’m Joanne Kilbourn. Remember? Sally’s friend.”

  She pulled her hand from mine. “I remember,” she said thickly. “Where’s Sally?”

  “She’ll be along soon,” I said. I waited, but Clea didn’t seem to have anything to say, so I opened my locker, picked up my towel and went off to shower. When I came back, Clea was still there, sitting, waiting
. She had the look of someone who would wait forever.

  Sally had apparently gone straight to the showers. When she finally came in, her hair was dark with water and she had a blue towel wrapped sarong-like around her. Clea Poole jumped up and ran over to her. It seemed to take Sally a moment to focus on the situation.

  “Clea, what are you doing here?”

  Clea Poole’s voice was tight with anger. “Where else would I be? This morning a total stranger walked into womanswork – our gallery, Sally, the one we built up together – and she told me she’d be bringing her husband around Christmas Eve to see his present.” Her composure was breaking. “This person had a big red satin ribbon with her and she asked me if as a favour I’d mind tying it across the door when I closed up Christmas Eve. Sally, do you hear me? She wanted me to tie a ribbon on the front door of womanswork because you sold it to her. You sold it without telling me, Sally. Our gallery is a fucking gift for a fucking husband.”

  “Clea, I didn’t want it to be like this. I’m sorry, truly I am, but things just happened too fast.”

  Clea Poole had begun to cry. As the tears spilled onto her cheeks, she wiped at them with the sleeve of her coat. “Remember our dream about a gallery where women from all over the west could come? What am I going to do if I don’t have …” The end of her sentence dissolved in a sob.

  Sally’s voice sounded tired and sad. “You’re going to do what everyone else in the world does. You’re going to cope. Look, Clea, it really is time for a change of direction. Nobody does all that vaginal stuff any more.”

  “Including you?” sobbed Clea.

  “Oh, Mouse.” Sally reached out to comfort Clea. The blue towel that had been wrapped around her body fell to the floor. Confronted with Sally’s nakedness, Clea Poole’s face grew soft. Then she bent down, picked up the blue towel and draped it over Sally’s shoulders.