Waaaaaaay back then, my father would pile my mother, my two siblings, Bill and Joanne, and me into the Fargo quarter ton on sunny Sunday afternoons and haul us to the pasture. The truck would buckle and jump over dirt paths created by years of plodding cow hooves until we'd finally reach our destination, a favourite family spot about a mile or so (not kilometres back then) from the farmstead: it was a secluded grassy meadow between two groves of trees that met at a comely slough filled with tadpoles and leeches and other creatures, endlessly interesting to a curious, young boy like myself. Mom would spread out old blankets, and while we kids drank hi-cal Kool-Aid and busied ourselves making daisy chains or pictures out of clouds, she would pull the makings of a feast from the special-occasion wicker basket. After lunch of tuna or chicken salad sandwiches, chunks of sausage and hard-boiled eggs, seeded grapes, ripe peaches and sweet strawberries and usually finished off with some sticky icinged cake, Dad would haul out the baseball mitts and ball that were black with age and farm living, and the five of us would play catch for what seemed like hours in that sun-dappled field of wild grasses.
It wasn't until the afternoon grew old that it was time for the main event-the wiener roast, the thing that we were really there for. Dad and Bill would build the fire from sticks and lightning-cracked logs that Joanne and I had scrounged from the woods. Mom would pre-butter a dozen hot dog buns and mix together the ingredients for her spectacular homemade potato salad, which she'd kept cool all afternoon by immersing them in the shaded waters of the slough in watertight Tupperware containers. The most fun was finding the wiener roast sticks, the ash and birch switches that had to have just enough heft to hold a wiener aloft above the fire without drooping, yet not be too thick to properly impale the slender pink tubes of mm-mm goodness without splitting them in half.
Dad would have a Pilsner beer-also slough-cooled-while we roasted his wieners and ours. Mom would pour the rest of us tall plastic glasses full of frothy, homemade root beer, her mother's recipe, and hand out paper plates-the only time she ever allowed their use-with healthy dollops of the potato salad already in place. And then, when the wieners were bursting at the seams and dripping their juices into the fire, we'd plop them into waiting buns, squirt ketchup and relish and bright yellow mustard all over them and dine al fresco, prairie style. It was absolutely, excruciatingly glorious.
Moving ahead a quarter century, things had changed considerably. Anthony detested wieners and, despite my protestations to the contrary, refused to believe that I, and every adult the world over, did not as well. To give him credit, I was told (by Jared) that he did try his best to accommodate my childhood experience. He spent significant time researching gourmet wiener options, but alas, finding none which met his high standards, my birthday wiener roast became a pig roast. I'd only seen such a thing in pictures of Hawaiian luaus-a crispy-brown pig, slowly turning on a spit above a fire-but I had no doubt that if Anthony put his mind to it, he'd find a way to duplicate it in Saskatchewan.
In addition to the pig, Anthony insisted on an abundant collection of skewered foods, which in his mind, what with the whole meat on a stick theme, seemed a fine alternative to hot dogs. There'd be marinated shrimp and scallops, spicy beef and smoked porks, plump mushrooms and onions and a wide selection of succulent vegetables in a medley of summer colours. To balance out the menu, tortes and cobblers replaced sticky-icinged cake, and Kool-Aid and root beer and Pilsner were supplanted by Veuve Clicquot and frozen gin served in silver-plated flasks for that authentic out-in-the-woods feeling I so fondly remember.
Also under Anthony's careful tutelage, Errall's backyard was transformed into the Tribal Council area from Survivor. Just in case the actual outdoors didn't sound real enough, a series of specially burned CD's would fill the air with realistic outdoor sounds. You know how it is with hoot owls, burbling brooks and chirping blue jays, you can never rely on their sense of timing.
"You're not surprised," Errall complained when she opened her front door and caught the look on my face.
"I think you're supposed to wait to say that until you've led me to the backyard and everyone jumps up and yells Happy Birthday," I replied matter-of-factly.
"It was Anthony, wasn't it?" she said, pulling me into the house with her left hand-the other was holding a near empty bottle of Boh. What a lesbian.
"He really thought it was more important that I show up tonight appropriately dressed to entertain guests, rather than in dirt-encrusted jeans and uncombed hair like I usually do when invited for dinner at your house." I was being only half-sarcastic. Unless you've been in a wind storm or something, just how many times a day do you need to comb your hair? "Which, by the way, would have given it away anyhow."
"Whaddaya mean?" she frowned at me.
"You never invite me over for dinner."
"True. He's probably right anyway. You look nice."
Compliments were something new Errall and I were trying out with one another. It usually went better when at least one of us was drinking. I was wearing a pair of black linen, wide-leg panes that reached mid-calf and a loose black, cable-knit, summer-weight sweater with a deep V-neck. She looked good too in a petunia print, sleeveless frock, her dark mane in a sassy bob that swished just below her sharp jaw line, but I decided to keep that to myself until I saw just how fun this party really was.
As we made our way through the house toward my backyard surprise that wasn't a surprise at all, I needn't have fretted, for little did I know that this night would bring me more than my fair share of honest-to-goodness surprises.
When we reached the back door off the kitchen, the unusual silence that only occurs at surprise parties and never in real life was palpable. My smugness at being in on the whole deal was suddenly being replaced by something else, something that was gurgling in my tummy and feeding my brain endorphins. Was it excitement or trepidation? I wasn't sure. I looked at Errall, waiting for her to make the first move by opening the door.
"There's something I have to tell you before we go out there," Errall whispered breathlessly.
Uhhhh, yeah, I know, surprise party ahead. I gave her one of those "duh" looks.
"Not that, idiot. I have a date with me tonight."
Gulp. Anthony had warned me, but I didn't believe it until now. Errall had had one or two dalliances since her breakup with her long-term partner, Kelly, a couple of years ago, but not with anyone she'd referred to as a "date." What did this mean?
Leaving no time for reaction, Errall placed her slender hand on the doorknob, mouthed the words "Happy Birthday" to me, and threw open the door to a chorus of screams from the assembled guests revealed. On cue, someone plugged in multiple strings of festive patio lanterns, lit the tiki torches and started the music. I felt the palm of Errall's hand push me into the melee and then she disappeared.
Although I'd been experiencing some-shall we say, discomfort- about the whole turning thirty-five thing, I have to say, every now and again, having a big ol' birthday party like your mama used to throw you when you were a kid is not to be underrated. For the first several minutes as I took in the collection of familiar, smiling faces, all there to be with me, to celebrate with me, wishing me well, I experienced a gushing fountain of oochy-koochy emotion stuff that I was unprepared for. I hugged and kissed and tickled and giggled and perfected a mock-shock look when asked if I was truly surprised. About half the people bought it. Beverly and Lilly from PWC were there with husbands and kids in tow, Alberta too, with a new beau, a guy who claimed to be training to pilot the first commercial space flight to Mars in 2009-I was guessing he'd already been to the moon-and by day was a librarian. There were Anthony and Jared, Marushka and Mary, a host of other friends, neighbours and even my mother, who'd made the trek from her little farm an hour away to surprise her "Sonsyou" (little son). But there was a glaring empty spot in the crowd, a space that, although she was physically small, seemed immensely huge in her absence.
"You're thinking about Sereena." It was Jared, looking
ridiculously perfect in gauzy white.
He'd caught me staring into space as I was waiting at the tiki bar for my margarita from a bartender dressed as a hula dancer. Maybe this was the guy who delivered the pig from the islands. We shared a look. I missed her. What can I say?
"Ohhhhhhh, Keeeeeee-rist!" This from someone who'd just bellied up to the bar.
I looked over, expecting-as had been the custom for the night-some new attack on my age, virility or ability to navigate without a motorized scooter. Instead I saw surprise number two-and it was none too pleasant.
"What the hell are you doin' here, bub?" Jane Cross asked with an exaggerated snarl on her cute-but-gnomelike face.
My head swivelled to and fro, looking in vain for the hidden Candid Camera. Or maybe this was for a new show entitled, World's Cruellest Home Videos. I couldn't believe it. If my life were set in medieval times or lived as an intergalactic space fantasy, Jane Cross might be referred to as my arch-enemy or nemesis, but I simply like to think of her as pain in the butt number one. Well, not really. She's not that bad I suppose. She just gets under my skin-like a case of the Itch after a swim in Pike Lake.
Jane Cross lives in Regina, almost three hours away for Pete's sake-so why did I keep on finding her in my life-and she is a colleague, another of that rare breed: the Saskatchewan sleuth. In our short history together she's attacked me in a hotel room, sprayed me in the face with Herbal Essence hairspray and scared my mother out of her wits. Who would ever think to invite her to my birthday party?
"Whassamatter?" she snorted, accepting a beer from the bartender. "No disco parties to shake your booty at tonight?"
No fair. I accepted her homosexual slurs before as pure ignorance... that is until I'd recently found out she is the type of woman who is overly fond of plaid shirts, big dogs, tool belts as accessories and other women, and should therefore damn well know better. "Is there a Birkenstock warehouse sale in town this weekend?" I shot back.
Jane's button nose expanded and steam came out; she couldn't help but look down at her feet. Yup, Birkenstocks with wool socks. It was thirty-two degrees in the shade, for crumb sakes.
"It's a big party," she grumbled at me. "You find your comer and I'll find mine."
Errall sidled up next to Jared, threading a thin arm through his thick one, and looked back and forth between me and Little Bo Bleep, "I see you've met," she said with an air of relief.
"You know this guy?" Jane said to Errall.
"This 'guy' is the birthday boy," Errall responded with a forced smile, sensing all was not right.
"You know this gal?" I mimicked.
Errall shot me a warning look before saying, "Jane is my date, Russell. Remember, I was telling you?"
Bomb.
I plastered on my own fake smile and, with a hand on Jared's elbow, said, "You'll excuse us, right? I have something to discuss with Jared."
Jane scowled, Errall looked blank. As we walked away, I heard my mother approach the two women. I debated waiting to overhear the conversation: given the players, it would be a goodie. But I truly did have something to talk to Jared about and I didn't want to spend any more time with Jane Cross than I absolutely had to. The last thing I heard was my Ukrainian mother saying to Errall- r's in full roll-"Hello, Carol. Tank you for inviting me for party. Very nice den, uhuh."
"I take it you don't like Errall's new squeeze?" Jared got out once I'd manoeuvred him into a relatively quiet corner of the yard next to a crabapple tree heavy with fruit and released his elbow.
"When the hell did that happen? How did those two even meet?" I was incredulous.
Jared shrugged. "I just met her tonight too, so I'm guessing it's pretty new."
I could think of a million jabs and barbs, but what was the point? "Listen Jared, I hate to do this right now, but I have something important to talk to you about. I wouldn't do it tonight, but it might be urgent."
"Sure, of course," he said, immediately concerned. His emerald eyes searched mine, and were filled with the desire to help in whatever way he could. He is just that kind of guy.
I pulled out a folded-over copy I'd made of the photograph Duncan Sikorsky had left me and handed it to Jared. I knew he'd recognize it. He was one of the twelve people in it.
Jared looked at the photo and registered surprise. "Wow. Where did you get this?"
"From Duncan Sikorsky."
"Duncan, yeah, okay, I know him, but...why? Why do you have this? Why did he give it to you?"
I ignored the questions for now. "What can you tell me about the picture? Who are these people?"
"Well, that's easy," he said brushing a stray golden lock off his forehead and sipping his drink. "It's the Pink Gophers."
I searched the bowl of my own drink for any sign of hallucinogens. My face told the rest.
'The Pink Gophers," Jared explained patiently, "is a Saskatoon-based LGBT-friendly chorus. I'm a member. We're on hiatus until the fall."
"You can give me the names of all these people?"
"I can do better than that. I can give you our contact list with names, phone numbers and e-mails if you want."
Jackpot. "I do want."
"Russell, what's this all about?"
"It's a case I'm working on. I can't tell you much." No need to tell him I really didn't know what this was all about. Yet.
"Of course. I understand. But...well, is someone in trouble?"
"Tanya Culinare and Moxie Banyon."
"Yeah?"
He hadn't heard. I suppose he wouldn't have unless they were good friends who'd kept in touch during hiatus. Moxie died in Moose Jaw and Tanya's death was recent and coverage in the Saskatoon paper had been sparse.
"They're dead," I told him, laying a comforting hand on his arm.
His eyes grew humongous and his jaw slackened. "Oh no, Russell, what happened? When?"
I gave him a brief overview. He listened attentively, every so often letting out a moan of sympathy.
"I wish I'd known," he said when I was done. "We didn't know each other outside the chorus, but I'd have certainly gone to the funerals to offer my condolences to their families."
"Jared, I visited Duncan in Vancouver. He's a man scared out of his wits. Tanya and Moxie were scared too. I think all of this might be related. Can you think of anything, other than being friends, these three might have in common, why they'd be getting threats?"
"Getting threats? They were scared? Of what?" Jared was trying to keep up with an admittedly complex story.
I humped my shoulders. "I don't know. The boogeyman?"
Jared stayed silent for a moment, as if mulling something over. "Ah, Russell..."
"Yeah?"
"You know, I haven't really given it too much thought, but I had something weird happen to me about a week ago. I only mention it because you brought up the boogeyman. And that's exactly what I thought of when it happened."
My back stiffened and my Barnaby Jones-Buddy Ebsen (I was thirty-five, after all) sense went on full alert. "Tell me."
"Anthony was away in Boston on a buying trip, so I was home alone. I'd gone to bed early with a stack of trash magazines and a bowl of popcorn-a guilty pleasure when he's away-and fallen asleep. I remember waking up hearing a low, almost rhythmic thumping, like drums in the distance. I finally realized it was coming from the front door of the apartment, but when I looked through the peephole there was no one there. Half hour later, same thing. That time I opened the door but the hallway was empty."
Jared and Anthony live in a downtown penthouse suite where panhandlers, random acts by mischief makers or even kids selling chocolate covered almonds so their class can visit the Legislature buildings in Regina aren't regular occurrences.
"It happened once more," he told me, "and then the phone started ringing with hang-ups."
"Call display show anything?"
"Unknown number, so probably a cellphone or pay phone."
"Has this ever happened before, Jared?"
"Never. And
maybe it's all just a weird one-time thing, some mistake or something, but it spooked me. You know how the mind can work overtime in situations like that: home by yourself, your loved one away, dark, lonely night; you start hearing squeaks and creaks that are probably always there but you've just never paid attention before."
I was alarmed and my voice showed it. "Jared, this is more than just a few squeaks and creaks. Someone had to be there, at your door, on the other end of the phone line."
"Yeah," he said, not quite sharing my concern. "But it could have been a wrong address, wrong number type thing. Hasn't happened since."
I wasn't so sure. "I'd like to get that contact list as soon as possible. And if you can think of any reasons those three and you might be the target of scare tactics..."
"Sure, of course, I'll let you know."
Anthony Bidulka Page 13