Now Jamie was glad there was no snake. He stepped closer to Oliver, and reached out a hand toward the rat.
“Jamie, be careful.”
“He’s harmless. Absolutely harmless. But I’ll keep him out of your sight since you find him distressing.”
It wasn’t the word Rose would have used, and she wanted to keep the rat in her sight, but Oliver had already tucked Oscar back into the folds of his fur coat. Rose didn’t ask if he’d like to take it off.
Oliver had no intention of removing his coat. In spite of his layers of insulation, he felt the cold. Poor circulation. He stamped his feet and flexed his fingers.
“Here, come sit by the fire.” Rose indicated a chair, small and missing a couple of rungs.
But the tent had caught his attention.
“My dear, how unique.”
“That’s not the word I’d use. Tea?” She avoided the seating problem, then was surprised to see Oliver accordion down to the floor in the front entrance to the tent, smack in front of the wood range.
How will he ever get up? He read her look.
“My dear, I do this all the time. It surprises people because of my – ”
He looked down at the mountain of body collapsed around him – “girth. But I’ve always been flexible. This is how I sit for my readings. I have no problem getting up, come the time.”
“Readings?”
“Tarot.” Oliver slipped a hand into his coat pocket and pulled out the cards.
“I can read your fate in here, my dear.”
“Please don’t.”
Oliver basked in the warmth of the range, watching Rose busy herself with the tea. He had the heady feeling of being in love. In love with Rose. He was imagining her as a young woman, a vibrant, untouchable being, like all of the women he fell in love with, women he couldn’t have. Women in books, usually. Either fictitious, long dead, or happily married.
The sound of several rounds of gunfire startled Oliver. Rose made no response to the gunshots. Fitz finding dinner. A rabbit or a squirrel.
Another shot rang out. Thud. A bark, strangled into a whimper. A child’s cry of shock.
Rose whipped around, still clutching the kettle, spilling boiling water down her dress, wincing, bringing Oliver to his feet; the cats, White and Ginger, on high alert, sitting straight up, ears cocked, eyes fixed on the danger. Oscar peeked out from Oliver’s sleeve, sniffing for information.
Rose threw the kettle to the floor, the hot liquid stinging at Oliver’s ankles as he followed her through the door.
Fitz had his rifle aimed at Freddy. Jamie had his arms around the dog, protecting him. Fitz had a wild look in his eye that made Rose and Oliver freeze, in spite of their desire to go to Jamie.
They didn’t have to. Fitz never saw Nathan coming. He’d been asleep in his truck waiting for Oliver. The shots had punctuated his dream and had woken him up. When he saw what was going on, he jumped out of the truck, hurled himself at Fitz, whipped the shotgun from his hands, and used it to pin him to the ground. Then he sat on him.
Fitz struggled to free himself, but Nathan was too strong.
“That fuckin’ dog.” Fitz’s speech was guttural. The gun was pressing on his neck, making the bicycle chain dig into him.
Oliver winced at the language.
“That fuckin’ dog went and ate the rabbit I wuz after.”
“The dog has to eat, too,” said Rose. “We can’t afford to feed her anything.”
Freddy was pitifully skinny, shivering from fright and cold.
“We can’t afford to let her eat our food.”
Nathan relaxed his hold just a bit.
“If I let you up, you won’t go for the dog again?”
“Nah.”
Nathan stood up. Fitz got up, too, and dusted himself off. He grabbed the rifle from Nathan. He grinned, an ugly grin, more like a sneer.
“If she wasn’t skin and bone, we could kill her and eat her.”
“No!” Jamie leapt up and ran at his father. Fitz held him back with a hand on his forehead. Jamie flailed helplessly at his father, trying to land a punch.
Fitz laughed, a mean and heartless laugh. He dropped his hand, took up his rifle with both hands, and strode back toward the woods.
“That mutt better not be here when I get back,” he yelled behind him. “Or I will make dog soup of her.”
Jamie was weeping. Big tears rolling down his face, he patted Freddy, who leaned in close to him, shooting helpless looks at the people around her. She nuzzled him. How could she make him feel better?
Nathan put a hand on Jamie’s shoulder.
“I’ll take her,” he said. “Lili and I will take her until your father calms down. You can come and visit her at our house. We’re just the next one down the hill there.”
Nathan had traded it with Abel in exchange for a lifetime of snowplowing and lawn-mowing. When he had made the deal, the villagers had been more interested to know how Abel was looking than in Nathan’s acquisition of the house, though the terms and money exchanged were mulled over frequently on long winter nights.
Nathan patted Freddy, and she looked up at him with adoring eyes. So did Jamie.
Nathan smiled.
“We’ll keep her inside so she doesn’t run into him.”
In that moment, Nathan became Jamie’s hero. His eyes shone with relief and gratitude. He wasn’t used to kindness from strangers. People avoided his family.
Rose expressed her gratitude in the only way she could:
“Can I offer you a cup of tea?”
“Don’t mind if I do,” said Nathan. “Just let me get the dog in the truck, where she’ll be safe.”
Jamie followed Nathan like a puppy himself. His eyes went big when he saw the inside of the vehicle.
“Wow, I’d love to drive this.”
Nathan chuckled.
“I can drive, you know.”
“I’m sure you can. A tractor? A ride-on mower?”
Jamie’s head dropped.
“Well, yeah…”
“I’m sure you could drive this, too.” Nathan’s voice softened. “As soon as you’re tall enough. Right now your foot wouldn’t reach the gas pedal or the brake.”
Jamie frowned.
“But as soon as it does…” Nathan winked. “…you can take her for a spin.”
He was still young enough to remember how exciting driving was to a young boy – tractors, mowers, anything with a motor – but the real thing, an actual road vehicle, that was the prize.
Freddy hopped into the truck and nestled into an old blanket Nathan kept for his parents’ dog Toby. Freddy sniffed at it, gave Toby’s smell her approval, and flopped her head down on her front paws. Nathan and Jamie went back inside to find Oliver and Rose in deep conversation. They looked up, and Rose blushed, the blush rising high on her cheeks. Now she really did look like that glowing young woman Oliver fancied she had been.
Oliver meant to keep the attraction a close secret, but on his next visit, he was frank about his other interest. The diary.
“I don’t suppose your husband has mentioned it,” he had said. “Or Jamie?”
She had sniffed dismissively. “Jamie’s too busy visiting Freddy, playing the piano or computer games.”
At the moment, Jamie was playing cat and mouse. When Ginger and White jumped off Oliver, he’d taken off with them around the house, encouraging them in their mouse-hunting, and clearing up their kill as they went. They didn’t eat the mice. Jamie would have liked to play with Oscar as well, but Rose wouldn’t allow it. Oliver had to keep his pet rat out of her sight.
“Fitz wouldn’t pay attention to a book unless he thought it was useful. And these are only good for burning.”
She nodded at the pile of books tossed in an untidy heap by the wood range.
“It’s okay. I’ve checked them all,” said Rose. “No diary.” She picked up a couple, opened the stove door, and tossed them in.
Oliver winced. They were beyond saving, but the idea of burning books sent a sharp pain through him, as if he’d been stabbed. He turned away. He couldn’t look. He left the room and hit a wall of cold. Cobwebs hung in the corners of the doorframe, filled with dead flies and moths.
He hauled himself up the stairs, planting one foot first, his hand on the banister, pulling the next foot up, keeping his feet wide apart for balance. When Rose came out into the hallway, she left the door open. It was usually closed to contain the heat inside the kitchen, but she wanted some of the heat to drift up to Oliver.
By the time he reached the top of the stairs, Oliver’s breathing was laboured. He had to stop, still clinging to the banister, his chest heaving, his mouth half-open.
Rose glided up the stairs and placed a soft hand on his back.
“Are you all right?” Her eyes full of concern. It warmed his heart, calmed its beating. But then it swelled to aching again, full of the warmth of her. Oliver was in love with a living female. Not in a book, not created out of a book, but a woman in the flesh, a woman he knew could never love him back. That much remained the same.
She took him by the hand – ecstasy! Together, they went into the library. Oliver’s step was now quick, his eyes bright from Rose’s touch and the prospect of finding the diary. He knew he could, with Rose here.
Rose looked around the room in despair. Books strewn everywhere, covers yawning open or ripped off, pages chewed by rats and used as urinals. She shuddered at the thought of touching any of them.
How would they find anything here?
They wouldn’t.
It would find them.
Chapter Sixteen
“The kid’s a genius.”
Hy looked up. Surprised that Ian knew. Surprised that he’d met the boy.
“Yes, a prodigy. I’m putting him in the Christmas show.”
Ian looked puzzled. So did Hy.
“The piano,” she said. “You’ve heard him play?”
He shook his head. “I’m talking about the computer. He’s been here to play games and surf on mine. I’d gone up to see if I could help them set up theirs and if they could connect to high-speed.”
Hy snorted.
“You can say that again. No electricity. A tent pitched in the kitchen. Nothing resembling an electronic device.”
Hy smiled.
“You went up because you were snooping, and you didn’t believe what I told you.”
He grinned. “That, too. Man, what a desperate way to live.”
She nodded. “So you took Jamie to your place.”
“Yeah, showed him a few things, and he caught on faster than I’ve seen anyone do. Told him he could come and use it anytime.”
“I said the same thing about the piano. I think I’ll have it tuned.”
“That good, is he?”
“That good and more.” I took him to Tchai Ferguson in Charlottetown, and he – she – is willing to take Jamie on.”
“He? She?”
“Transgendered. Coming out. Doing the surgery. Guy to a gal.”
Ian winced.
“But what good will it do him living in that place with that father, and the mother so beaten down?”
Beaten. The word caught in her mind. Was there domestic abuse going on at Wild Rose Cottage? She had nothing to prove it. It was just a thought.
Fitz had her pinned up against the wall, his angry teeth bared at her. Rose was used to it. It didn’t even frighten her anymore.
“So what’re you and that fat slob up to? Somethin’ you won’t do with me?” He pressed his body hard against hers. She felt her gag reflex swelling, held it back. It wouldn’t do to vomit on him, as he had done to her so many times.
“That fuckin’ fag.” His hands tightened against her wrists.
“He’s not – ” She broke off. Maybe he was, but what did it matter?
His face came even closer. She could smell the rum on his breath. Another thing she was used to.
“What’s he doing here?”
What could she say? She grabbed at anything.
“He reads the cards.” It was a lie. She’d never let him. She was too afraid of her future.
“Pah!” He splattered his contempt on her face. Spit on her. She tried to move an arm to wipe it off, but he clamped even harder.
“And there’s a book,” she said finally, tired of this. Fitz wasn’t interested in books. The real secret was safe. Besides, the book was safe, wasn’t it? Somewhere no one could find it. If it existed anymore.
Fitz’s grip on her loosened. “A book?” Was that a glint of interest in his eyes? It couldn’t be.
“A diary.” She expected contempt. If he even knew what a diary was.
“A diary.” He said it slowly, drawing the word out. He relaxed his grip on her, and she pulled herself free.
“A diary,” he repeated, lingering on the word. Rose wondered why he was acting so strangely.
“Well, maybe I’ll let him keep looking.” He grabbed her arm as she tried to slip away. “And maybe I won’t. You just better tell me if he finds it.”
Buddy watched. Buddy was always watching. He watched Hy, just across the road, all the time. He watched over her, that is. Ready to come to her defence. It had never been necessary.
Now he watched Wild Rose Cottage. The lay of the land, the way it swept downwards, gave him a view of the house on the far side of Shipwreck Hill.
He watched, not just from his shack, but closer up, too. From in the woods, where he spent his days wandering and looking for kindling for his stove. He’d gather it up in piles, sticking one branch upright on top, and no one else would touch them. They would know they were his.
So he could hear the angry voices coming out of the house.
Buddy had heard the gunshots, too. He’d seen the child and the dog, their love for each other. He often watched Jamie go down the hill to Nathan’s. Sometimes he followed, but carefully. Careful not to be seen. He worried about the woman and the child. He stopped watching Hy, and began to keep a constant eye on Wild Rose Cottage.
Like Oliver, he fell in love with Rose. From a distance. Always from a distance. The child, too. The child with the golden hair. He wanted to touch it, but he knew he couldn’t. They’d think he wanted to harm the child. It had happened before.
Rose could hear them upstairs, flinging books, and themselves, around the library.
“We’ll look at the ones on this side of the room first,” Fitz had said, scraping his boot along the floor, moving books, dung, and dust across the room.
“We’ll pile them over there.” He pointed to one end of the room. “Then we’ll work on the other side after.”
“Sounds like a plan,” said Jared, ambling over. “But first – ” He pulled a joint out of his pocket. Fitz grinned. No hard feelings then about the grass he’d stolen. Not stolen. Just hadn’t paid for it yet.
Jared had been furious to find the pot gone, but he contained himself, for once. There could be some money in this little search, and he needed to stay tight with Fitz. Besides, there was plenty more. He grew his own supply in a clearing in the woods. Well-protected. Hot. And hidden. Harvested and dried in his barn. Stashed in urns meant for human remains, urns that had “fallen off a truck.”
They leaned up against a wall that had a tiny door in it, crooked and jammed shut with age. They’d tried to open it but couldn’t. The house had shifted, tilted it, and jammed it shut. They smoked. One joint. They began to riffle through books and toss them to the end of the room. Suddenly, Fitz stood up straight and smacked his forehead.
“That fat fella. He’s the one.�
� That Oliver. He was the guy who’d been making promises to Jared. “He’s the one you bin talkin’ to. He’ll pay fer it.” A wide grin. “Oh, he’ll pay fer it.”
Two joints. They stopped the search and each breathed in forgetting with the pot. Each forgetting a different thing. Fitz – his children. The things he had done to his children. For one moment the agony sliced through his mind, and then he let it go. Let it be buried, because he couldn’t think of it now, couldn’t think of them now. What he had done.
Jared was forgetting…nothing. What he had to forget was so well forgotten that he couldn’t find it anymore.
Fitz slapped Jared on the shoulder.
“Screw the fuckin’ diary.”
The diary was in a dark place. It had been there for a lifetime. That was nothing. The diary had been around for longer than one lifetime. No one had approached this place – because it couldn’t be seen. And it wasn’t remembered. Oliver didn’t remember it. He didn’t remember that he had brought it here himself. Hid it himself. The diary was waiting for Oliver, waiting for him to find it again.
“A diary?” Hy was intrigued when Rose told her what they were looking for.
Now that she’d told one person, it was easy to tell another. Besides, Oliver can’t have meant what he said. Surely the more people who knew about it, the more likely it was to be found.
Hy put down her teacup.
“Well, let’s go look.”
They were just on their way when Oliver arrived. He came up behind them and tugged himself up the stairs.
Hy tripped over the pile of books Fitz and Jared had shoved up against the wall. Her hand came down on something sticky, and she pulled it away, disgusted. Oliver came to help her up. And then they saw it. The door. The tiny door into the eaves. They looked at each other, silent, but tingling with expectation – why, none of them could have said.
Hy stood up and dusted herself off. Oliver reached for the doorknob.
The door was stuck shut, and he had to tug at it repeatedly. Just as he was about to give up, it gave in, and he went flying back onto his ass. His legs came up, and he lay there helplessly on his back, legs in the air. Hy and Rose helped him up. It wasn’t easy – they pushed and pushed again until he was rocking back and forth, until finally his feet tapped the ground and he was able to sit up. From there, it was easy. Rose watched with the amazement she always had at how Oliver brought himself up from the floor with ease.
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