Burying Ariel

by Gail Bowen

  “Forget the cab,” I said. “I’ll take you.”

  “Have the police talked to you yet?”

  “Nope, but they know where I live.”

  Howard frowned. “You don’t have to do this.”

  I picked up my sweater. “True, and you didn’t have to stay up with me all night when Ian died or spend hours convincing me the world hadn’t come to an end when Mieka dropped out of university or come to the hospital with me when Angus got that concussion playing football … Shall I continue?”

  He grinned sheepishly. “Let’s hit the road.”

  As soon as I turned the key in the ignition, Howard reached for the radio dial and punched in CVOX. It was 2:30 – time for Charlie’s show.

  Howard turned to face the window on the passenger side. His voice was a gravel whisper. “Do you think he’s found out yet?”

  “You’ll be able to tell when you hear him,” I said. “He doesn’t hold much back on that show.” It was true. I wasn’t a fan of open-line radio, and CVOX was all talk all the time, but whenever I’d caught “Heroes” I’d been impressed. Charlie’s subject was relationships, and he treated his callers’ problems with intelligence and a wild, subversive wit. He had taken the show’s name from Joseph Campbell’s book The Hero with a Thousand Faces, and the reference was significant. Many would have dismissed Charlie’s callers as malcontents or as charter members of the tribe of the terminally confused. But to Charlie they were heroes engaged in the hero’s journey to find answers that would make sense of their lives. His advice to them was a potent mix of eclectic allusion and dark insight that suggested their problems went beyond the classroom or the trailer court, and his audience, comprised largely of the desirable seventeen-to-thirty demographic was huge and loyal.

  When the drummer from Dave Matthews Band counted the band into Charlie’s theme music, “Ants Marching,” Howard stiffened. So did I, but as the music faded and Charlie began his intro, his dark-honey voice sounded as it always did, intense and intimate.

  “It’s 2:30 on CVOX, Voice Radio, and this is Charlie D, kicking off the first weekend of summer. Hot sun, cold beer, new friends, old loves – a time for revelry. But there are some among us who just can’t seem to celebrate the cosmically embedded self. No matter what you do for them, it’s never enough. This show is about them, or it’s about you if you’re one of them.

  “Some people,

  No matter what you give them

  Still want the moon.

  “The bread,

  The salt,

  White meat and dark,

  Still hungry.

  “The marriage bed

  And the cradle,

  Still empty arms.”

  Howard turned to me furiously. “What the hell’s he doing?”

  I raised my hand in a hushing gesture. “Listen.”

  Charlie’s voice was a seeping wound. He was close to the breaking point, but he was also a professional. He didn’t falter.

  “You give them land,

  Their own earth under their feet,

  And still they take to the roads.

  “And water: dig them the deepest well,

  Still it’s not deep enough

  To drink the moon from.

  “This show is about them … the ones who, even after you’ve dug them the deepest well, say it’s not deep enough, because it doesn’t let them drink the moon …”

  Howard glared at me. “Well?”

  “It’s called ‘Adam’s Complaint.’ Denise Levertov wrote it. Charlie uses poetry on his show all the time.”

  “Maybe to you it’s just poetry. But to a cop it’s going to sound like a confession. In cases like this, the boyfriend’s always a suspect.” Howard picked up my cellphone. “Charlie needs a lawyer.”

  “You’re a lawyer,” I said.

  Howard replaced the phone in the well between our seats. “Do you think he’d let me act for him?”

  “Why not?” I said. “You’re the best, and you’ll come cheap.”

  CVOX was a concrete and glass box surrounded by larger concrete and glass boxes that sold such commodities as discounted designer fashions, end-of-the-roll carpeting, and furniture that could dazzle your friends for a year before you had to cough up a single dime. The station was indistinguishable from its neighbours, except for the oversized call letters on its roof. The “O” in CVOX was an open, red-lipped mouth with a lascivious Mick Jagger tongue. Spectacular as the sign was, Howard didn’t even give it a passing glance. He leaped out of the car before I came to a full stop.

  I walked through the double glass doors at the front of the building just as the Queen of the Coneheads was running to block Howard’s entrance to the corridor that presumably led to the radio studios. Howard was a big man, six-foot-three and powerfully built, but he was no match for this tiny young woman with three-inch platform shoes and attitude as spiky as her hair.

  “No way,” she said. “Nobody goes in there unless I say they go in there.”

  Howard gazed at me beseechingly. He had never found it easy dealing with women.

  I walked over and stepped between them. The young woman gave me a quick up and down, decided I was harmless, and relaxed. “This is Charlie Dowhanuik’s father,” I said. She stared at me uncomprehendingly. I corrected myself. “Charlie D’s father,” I said.

  She nodded sagely. “Right.”

  “There’s been a death,” I said. “In the family.”

  Her small features rearranged themselves into an expression of sympathy. “Bummer,” she said. She looked up into Howard’s face. “Just give me a second, Mr. D, then I can take you down to the studio.” She went back to her desk, called for a back-up gatekeeper, then came over to Howard and took him gently by the arm. “This way,” she said. “Incidentally, I’m Esme.”

  When we were almost at the end of the hall, Esme steered us to the right, down a short corridor, and into a control room. We stood awkwardly while she whispered something to a woman in a black turtleneck, who turned from the array of equipment in front of her, glanced our way, then swivelled her chair to face the glass that separated the control room from the studio. Through the glass I could see Charlie. I had known his mother well, and Charlie was unmistakably her son: black hair, sleepy hazel eyes, aquiline nose, generous mouth. But unlike her son, Marnie Dowhanuik’s beauty had been without flaw.

  When the woman in the black turtleneck murmured into her microphone, Charlie looked up. He was wearing headphones. She turned to Howard. “You can talk to him now. I’ll go to a commercial. Tell him I’m bringing somebody in to finish the show.”

  In seconds, Howard appeared in Charlie’s studio. He sat down in the chair next to his son’s, leaned over, swung one of his massive arms around Charlie’s slender shoulders and put his mouth to Charlie’s ear. For a beat, Charlie listened, then his face crumpled. He had adjusted his headphones so he could hear his father; now he ripped them off and covered his face with his hands.

  Viewed through glass, the silent tableau of discovery and grief had the surreal intensity of life inside an aquarium. Instinctively, both the woman in the turtleneck and I looked away. She picked up the phone and summoned someone named Troy to Studio D, then turned to me. “I’m Kendra Gaede,” she said. “You’re welcome to stay here till they decide how they want to handle this.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’d like to be here in case Howard needs me.”

  He didn’t. In a beat, Charlie picked up his headphones and slipped them back on.

  “Troy’s going to finish for you,” Kendra said.

  Charlie nodded, then punched a button in front of him. We could hear his voice. “I have to explain why Troy’s taking over. Otherwise, the switchboard will be jammed.”

  “Are you sure you can get through it?” Kendra asked. “Troy can come up with something.”

  Charlie raised his hand, palm towards us. “The people who listen to this show trust me. I have to be honest with them.” Charlie picked up his headphone
s, and began speaking. “Over seven hundred years ago, a beautiful woman named Francesca da Rimini told Dante a great truth: ‘There is nothing more painful than to remember happy days in times of sorrow.’ ” The smooth professionalism of his voice shattered against the hard edge of grief, but he soldiered on. “Francesca was one of the damned. I’ve just discovered that I am, too. The topic for the rest of the show is loss. So if you’re lost, today’s your day. Troy Prigotzke will be taking over for the rest of the show. Till the next time, this is Charlie D. Be strong. Nothing lasts forever.”

  His words were brave, but as soon as Troy Prigotzke entered the booth, Charlie slumped. Gentle as a mother Troy took the headphones from Charlie’s head and placed them on his own. “Time to go, Buddy,” Troy said, and Charlie stood and walked out of the booth; Howard was right behind him.

  As Charlie crossed in front of me, I put my hand on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” I said. I turned to Howard. “Can I give you a lift anywhere?”

  Howard shook his head. “Charlie’s probably better without too many people around right now. When he decides what he wants to do, we can cab it. I’ll call you tonight.”

  “Do that,” I said.

  After Charlie and Howard disappeared down the hall that led to the CVOX offices, Esme touched me on the shoulder. “I’ll walk you back to reception,” she said.

  The walls on either side of us were hung with oversized publicity photographs of the on-air personalities of CVOX. The pictures were brightly banal and I passed them without a second glance. But I slowed at Charlie’s portrait. He had presented his best profile to the camera, but the lighting was dim and, in a gesture heartbreakingly instinctive and familiar, his right hand was raised to shield his blood-scarred hidden face.

  In that instant, I gleaned something of what it was like for Charlie to live in a world full of mirrors and cameras and eyes, and my mind recoiled from this insight into his perpetual suffering. When we reached the main desk, Esme’s words wrenched me back to reality.

  “I didn’t know it was her. I thought when you said there was a death in the family it was like an old uncle or something.” She ran a hand through her spiky burgundy hair. “Ariel wasn’t much older than me.”

  “Too young,” I said.

  She bobbed her head in affirmation. “Way, way too young.”

  I started towards the door. Esme called after me. “Wait.” She walked over to a cupboard behind the desk, took out a shiny black coffee mug and handed it to me. The logo on it was silver except for the wetly red Mick Jagger mouth that hinted at appetites too hip and too dark for talk radio. Cool on cool.

  I froze. Esme smacked the palm of her hand against her forehead. “Totally inappropriate, right?” she said. “It’s just that I always give these to guests. I’m such a space case.”

  “Nobody knows what to do in a situation like this,” I said. “Giving a person a mug makes as much sense as anything else.”

  On my way home, I turned on the radio and punched in CBC Radio Two. As I drove across the Albert Street Bridge, the graceful precision of Prokofiev’s “Classical” Symphony soothed me. I took a deep breath. With Prokofiev and luck, I might just make it through dinner.

  Luck was not on my side. Our new puppy was waiting for me inside the door. He was an eight-week-old Bouvier des Flandres named Willie, my first male dog and my first Bouvier, and so far he had brought credit to neither his gender nor his breed. He was sweet but not gifted. The day before, my son Angus had come home with the news that it took Bouviers two years to grow a brain. As Willie bounded towards me with the remnants of one of my new sandals hanging out of his mouth, I found myself wondering how he and I could make it through the next twenty-two months.

  I took the sandal from him and picked him up. He licked my face wildly. The smell of puppy breath won me over. “Okay,” I said. “I was young once myself.” I shifted his position, so I could establish eye contact. “But commit this to memory, Willie: during the summer of love, I scaled the heights of ecstasy many times, but I never once chewed a shoe.”

  I was studying his earnest face to see if my words had penetrated when the phone rang. It was Ed Mariani.

  “How’s it going?” he asked.

  “Okay,” I said. “Willie and I were just having a heart-to-heart. He chewed through one of my new sandals.”

  “Expensive?”

  “Top of the line at Wal-Mart.”

  “Another gold star for one-stop shopping.”

  “One of these days you’ll have to take cold terror by the hand and try it.”

  He laughed softly. “Jo, I did have a reason for calling. Are you still planning to come over to get the keys to the cottage tonight?”

  “I’d forgotten all about it. More coals heaped upon my head.”

  He laughed. “We’ll pass on the coals this time. I just wanted to make sure you still wanted to go out there this weekend.”

  “Absolutely. Taylor’s been rattling on about the lake for the past two weeks. When’s a good time for me to come by and pick up the keys?”

  “Seven? And, if she doesn’t have other plans, why don’t you bring Taylor with you? We have a new addition to the family.”

  “A pet?”

  “A nightingale. One of Barry’s old clients moved on to the next dimension and left him her bird. Don’t laugh. Inheriting a bird is a serious matter, especially if you hate the idea of anything being caged, which Barry and I both do. Anyway, Barry has built Florence the Taj Mahal of aviaries.”

  “The nightingale is named Florence?”

  “We have been spared no indignity,” Ed said dryly. “But I promise you Taylor will be dazzled, and if Florence isn’t enough, we’ve laid in a fresh supply of paper umbrellas for Taylor’s Shirley Temples.”

  “You spoil her,” I said.

  “Not a bit. Your daughter’s paintings are going to be worth a fortune some day, and Barry and I want to get in on the ground floor.” He sighed heavily. “Jo, I’m glad you’re coming over. I really was very fond of Ariel.”

  “Everybody was,” I said.

  His correction was gentle. “Not quite everybody.”

  After I hung up, I was hit by the weight of the day’s events. I looked over at my kitchen counter: tins of kidney beans and tomatoes were neatly stacked against the wall. I’d put them there that morning. I’d also chopped a large bowl of onions and celery, and put three pounds of lean ground beef in the fridge to defrost. My plan had been to come home after Rosalie’s luncheon and make a pot of chili to take to Katepwa with us the next night. For the first time since New Year’s, my whole family was going to be together: my daughter Mieka, her husband, Greg, and my eight-month-old granddaughter, Madeleine, were coming from Saskatoon; my son Peter was driving from Calgary, where he’d just begun work at a veterinarian’s clinic; and the rest of us were heading out from Regina as soon as the kids got home from school. Given the unpredictability of possible arrival times, chili had seemed like an inspired idea. It still did. I took the beef out of the refrigerator, threw it in the frying pan, picked up the can opener and started cranking.

  By the time the kids got home, the chili was simmering, and I was feeling less fragmented. Angus and Eli, the nephew of Alex Kequahtooway, the man in my life, floated through the house long enough to get Willie on his leash and take him for a run before they drove downtown to get their tuxes fitted for graduation. The week before, Alex had left for Ottawa to teach a month-long class, Minorities and the Justice System, and Eli had moved into Peter’s old room to finish off the school year. I was already missing Alex, but the sound of two seventeen-year-olds buzzing about dates and after-grad parties and tuxedos was a potent antidote to loneliness. Taylor revelled in having Eli around, too. When he arrived, she’d presented him with a drawing of Angus and himself in cap and gown, hanging out of a silvery stretch limo, throwing their mortarboards into the sky. Taylor, wearing a chauffeur’s cap, a billowing scarf, and a Cheshire cat grin, was behind the wheel. In art, as in
life, Taylor saw herself as the person in the driver’s seat.

  It was a witty piece, executed deftly. Taylor came by the skill naturally. Her birth mother was the artist Sally Love, and her grandfather was Desmond Love, a man whose name appeared on most art historians’ millennial lists of significant makers of art in Canada. From the moment she could grasp a pencil, Taylor had demonstrated an extraordinary mastery of technique, but her art teacher had pointed me to Taylor’s real talent by quoting Marcel Duchamp. “A technique can be learned, but you can’t learn to have an original imagination.” At seven, Taylor was already impatient with the accessible and fascinated by unexplored territory.

  As we headed south on Albert Street towards Ed’s, it was apparent my daughter was wired about the weekend ahead. “The minute we get there, I’m going swimming.” She darted a glance my way, and headed off the objection she saw coming. “I don’t care how cold it is. And after my swim, I’m going to make a little bed on the floor next to mine, so Madeleine can sleep beside me. Angus says Saturday night there’ll be fireworks and I’m going to hold her so she won’t be scared, and Eli says maybe he can build a bonfire and we can have a weenie roast. It’s going to be so awesome –” She stopped in mid-flight. “I mean it’s going to be really interesting.”

  I turned to her. “What happened to ‘awesome’?” I asked.

  “Ms. Cousin says if we use a word too often, it stops meaning anything. She says if we use the word ‘awesome’ when we talk about an ice cream cone, we won’t have a good word to use when we see the pyramids at Giza.”

  “Ms. Cousin deserves the Governor General’s Award,” I said. “But you may not have to wait for Cheops to see something awesome. Ed tells me he and Barry have a nightingale.”

  “A nightingale?” Her eyes were wide. “Just flying around?”

  “I don’t think so. I think they have an aviary – that’s a really big cage.”

  “I’m glad it’s big,” she said. “It wouldn’t be any good being a bird if you couldn’t fly around.”