Thirty
Carly
THE COWBELL OVER the door jingles; I push in and I’m greeted by the noisy clatter of cutlery and dishes and people chatter. The place has changed a little since I was last here. The condiments bar is now in the middle of the room snugged up against one of the supporting pillars. There’s a countertop over the bins for garbage and recyclables, with another bin on top so customers can bus their own tables. The red checkered tablecloths are gone. The place is nearly full, so customers don’t seem to mind not having tablecloths or taking their own dirty dishes to the tub.
I make my way through the tables to the counter where Ariana is busy adding more cinnamon buns to the glass display case. Without looking up, she says, “I’ll be right with you,” and pushes the last of the buns inside.
“Hi, Ariana,” I say.
She looks up and exclaims, “oh, Carly!” She puts the tray and tongs down and scurries around the end of the counter to put her arms around me for a hug. She releases me and says, “my god, where’ve you been? I thought you’d at least stop by once in a while.”
“I know, I should have. It’s just that I’ve been busy. So busy. And before you know it, weeks have gone by. You’re working mornings now? How’s your course going?”
“Great! My course is going great. No school on the weekends and Adeline wanted weekends to be with her family so I gladly took extra hours. I’m only here until the end of the semester then I’m going to move to the lower mainland. Closer to UBC. What about you?”
“Well, today Derek’s gone off to get a new boat. He’ll be gone all day so I’m taking advantage of having the whole day to myself to meet a friend here.”
“Oh, a new boat! That’s awesome! Not really the best time of year for it, though.”
“He says because it’s off season he got a good deal and the new boat’s so big storms don’t bother it.” I feel my face turning red as I spew out these scripted lies.
“Oh, it must be nice!”
“I guess so. I haven’t seen it yet. You know men, they don’t need the wife’s input.”
“I suppose not. Can I get you something?”
“I’m going to have an apple cinnamon muffin, and coffee. I think I’ll take one of those bacon and spinach quiches before they’re all gone, too. To go. Derek’s favourite. So I don’t have to cook today.” My chest feels tight but I manage to smile.
“Sure thing,” Ariana says, and goes back behind the display case. She passes me a mug, then takes tongs and selects the muffin. “Do you want that heated?”
“Yes, please.”
“You go ahead and get your coffee, then get a table while you still can.” She nods at the door where another couple has come in. “You can sit at the break table in the side room if you want.”
“I think I’ll do that,” I tell her.
“I’ll bring your muffin and your quiche in a sec.”
“Thanks!” I go to the coffee bar, select the Dark Columbian pump carafe and fill my mug. Coffee in hand, I go through to the side room.
There are several empty tables here, but I head for the one nearest the back kitchen entrance where there’s a ‘Reserved for Staff’ sign posted on the wall above it. I nod to the seniors at the next table. They’re regulars and remember me, calling me by name when they say hello. I hang my purse on the chair and set my coffee down but stand to chat. In answer to their question, tell them I’m not working anywhere, just retired, agreeing I’m too young to be retired but that I’m enjoying it just the same. I’m uneasy talking so much, but realize the more people who can say I was here this morning, acting like it’s any other morning, talking about my husband being gone for the day, the better.
I tell them I’m meeting a friend and go to sit next to the wall. Holding my coffee in both hands to stop their shaking I bow my head over the mug to inhale the scent. I could almost cry. Not because I regret killing Derek, because I don’t. Or at least I’m not sorry he’s gone. But taking a life? Even with good reason? What have I become?
Ariana brings my muffin with a pat of butter on a plate, and the quiche in a string-tied box. I dig into the muffin with gusto, and finish my first cup. I’m well into my second before Lita puts in an appearance. That’s Lita for you, always late. I’m not going to call her on it, though. She’s had a long night, and it shows. Beautiful, always unruffled Lita looks like hell.
“What’s up?” I say, loudly enough the seniors at the next table can hear me over their chatter and the banging of pans coming from the kitchen. “Rough night? You look like something the cat dragged in.”
Lita’s hands are shaking worse than mine were as she sets her mug of coffee on the table and takes the chair across from me. “You could say that,” she says. “Engine trouble with the boat.”
We make eye contact. I smile. She’s on script, too. We agreed they’d claim engine trouble in case anyone ever asked questions about why it took them so long to get from Silva Bay to Nanaimo. We don’t expect it to come up, but you know what they say, the devil’s in the details. She carefully sips her coffee, holding the mug in both hands and avoiding eye contact.
“Are you going to eat something?” I ask. “I’ll go get it for you if you like. My treat!”
“Um, no thanks, Carly,” she says, colour draining from her already pale face. She swallows hard a couple of times. “Didn’t get much sleep last night and my stomach’s still a bit rocky today.”
I smile and reach across the table to give her forearm a rub. She looks as though she might throw up.”
“That’s too bad. I slept like a dead person last night.”
She’s startled.
When I realize what I said, I’m startled too. I’ve said it many times in the past, but this time it was truly a horrifying comment.
No question about it. I’m evil.
Thirty-one
Lita
HANK AND CARLY sit side by side on the porch swing, hand in hand, both beaming. I’ve seen that look before. It’s the “we just invented sex” expression. I’m sure I’ve looked like that myself at times.
I tell myself it’s awesome to see Carly happy. She always wanted a husband and kids and now she has both again. Carly and Hank are planning on having a baby. He’s always wanted kids but never found the right woman. The crazy man is so smitten with Carly he’s happily taken on her teenager, and she’s happy about having another baby, too. Her fortieth birthday is in her rear view so she’s worried about her biological clock ticking; they’re in a bit of a hurry, which likely means a lot of sex. Hence Hank’s Cheshire Cat expression.
“So Carly, your house sold,” Nullah says. “Did you get your price?”
“Close enough. But values have gone up so much it doesn’t really matter. I’m happy with it. And waterfront properties, even with drop-on beach like mine, have gone up faster than anything. Having that dock turned out to be a real selling point.”
“It can really come in handy,” I say. Nullah gives me an odd look. I don’t want to meet his gaze so I look away.
“We can go ahead and build that new house now. We got that lot we put an offer in on,” Hank says. “Nice ocean view. You guys should come take a look.”
“Sure,” Nullah agrees. “How about tomorrow?”
“Perfect,” Hank says. “I’ll show you the plans, too. See if you’ve got any ideas for improvement.”
“It’s close to Hank’s shop so Jennifer will have to change schools,” Carly explains, “but I went to three different high schools and I turned out all right, so she’ll be fine. She’s actually looking forward to it, I think. At least she’s interested in her new room. Talking about paint and carpet colours and so on. Surprising how her attitude toward me changed when she realized her father was gone for good and I was all she had.”
“It’s tough on kids, but they’re resilient,” Nullah says. He gets up and goes to check the salmon on the barbeque. “Nearly ready,” he pronounces.
“Anyone need another drink?�
�� I ask. I know I do, especially after Carly’s casual comment about Derek being gone “for good” and how she turned out all right. I’m not sure in what universe being a murderer falls in the “turned out all right” column. She’s obviously more successful than I am at forgetting. Or more likely, she’s absolved herself of blame for what she thinks was justifiable homicide. In my more reflective moments, I think it was justified, too. No question she would be dead if he wasn’t, but what I struggle with is how we covered it up. Derek is often in my dreams, or rather, in my nightmares, although he’s never frightening, just sort of hovering around. He looks like he did when he was alive, and although he doesn’t speak he conveys a question: why? I never answer.
I ask myself what the alternative would have been and tell myself what we did was the right thing.
“I’ll help myself,” Hank says. “In fact, I’ll top up both you ladies’ glasses while I’m up.” He gets to his feet and disappears through the patio doors, coming back with the box of wine and a couple of beers. He puts the beer on the table, then brings the box to me to fill my wineglass and does the same with Carly’s. He puts the box on the table and picks up the beers, handing one to Nullah as he stops up beside him at the barbeque. “You still lookin’ for a motor for your dinghy?” Hank asks.
“Yeah. You come across one?”
“I remembered I pulled the kicker off Carly’s boat back when it first came in. 9.9 horse Merc, four stroke, nice little engine. Cleaned it up and it runs good, just like new. Doubt if it was ever even used.”
“Sounds perfect. But off Carly’s boat? You still got that?” Nullah asks.
“Yeah. Already pulled everything that was salvageable off it ages ago, ran fresh water through the motors, sold the big one almost right away. Stuck the kicker up in the mezzanine and forgot about it. Came across it last week when I was up there looking for something else. Still trying to decide if the hull’s worth fixing. You saw how beat up it was.”
Nullah nods. “Yeah, it took quite a beating, washing up where it was so rocky. I’m surprised you even considered repairing it.”
“I had to say I’d try, at first,” Hank says. “It was the only excuse I had to talk to Carly, remember.” He turns and smiles at Carly.
“Godawmighty, how many times were we all together and it took you damn near two years to ask her out,” Nullah says. “We thought you’d never get up the nerve.”
“When do you ask a widow woman for a date? How soon is too soon?”
“In her case, there was no too soon,” I mutter.
Nullah gives me a sharp look and says, “might’ve been simpler if he, er, his body was found so we weren’t all waiting for that.”
“Some of us are still waiting for that,” I point out. I look at Carly and see she’s contentedly sipping her wine. If she’s fretting about his body not being found or what evidence there might still be if it is found, she doesn’t show it. It’s like she quit thinking about him, and what happened, when he was pronounced legally dead.
I can’t believe how much better she’s handled this than I have. I sink back in my deck chair and lift my glass for a long swallow as the memory of that stormy night washes over me.
Nullah says, “anyway, how many years is it and you’re still fucking around pretending you’re going to repair the boat? I think you can give it up. Especially now that you got that ring on her finger.”
“You’re right,” Hank agrees. “Fact is, it’s in the back corner of the yard overgrown with blackberries. I think the feral cats that wait for me at the shop door every morning live in it.”
“I’ve honestly forgotten you were ever planning on repairing it. Either early onset dementia or selective memory,” Carly says, and giggles. “What would we do with it if it was fixed up? Is it worth anything?”
“Well, sure, it’s worth something I guess, but not enough to pay for labour and materials,” Hank replies.
I wish I had selective memory instead of reliving every terrible moment of being an accessory after the fact, even if Derek deserved what he got. I manage to banish the terrible memory, collect myself, and say, “surely you don’t want it as a project, like a hobby. Not when fixing boats is your business.”
“Babe, he only said he’d fix it so he could get with Carly,” Nullah reminds me. “You know that.”
“Busted!” Hank agrees, smiles sheepishly and takes a long swallow of his beer. “Well anyhow, it worked. So, the boat served its purpose.”
“More than you will ever know,” I agree.
“Okay, the salmon’s done,” Nullah says a little more loudly than necessary, and slides the spatulas under it to remove it to the platter.
Carly stands and says, “great! I’ll get the potato salad. I tried a new recipe, Dijon mustard, vinegar and finely chopped sundried tomatoes. I think you guys will like it!” She bounces off through the patio doors heading for the kitchen.
“I’ll make the margaritas,” Hank says and follows her in.
I take a seat at the table, open the container of Greek salad that was my contribution, and stick a serving spoon in it.
Nullah brings the salmon to the table, sets it down and sits next to me. He puts a hand on my shoulder and gives it a rub. From the kitchen comes the sound of the blender whirring into action.
“You okay, babe?” Nullah asks quietly. “those memories, again?”
He knows me so well at times it seems he reads my thoughts. As unbelievably sweet as it is to have such a connection with this beautiful man, there are times I wish he couldn’t read me so easily. This is one of those times. I take a deep breath and nod.
“I know it does not good to say this, but try to put it out of your mind.”
“I am trying.”
“I know you are.” He leans over and lifts my chin for a kiss. “Being with her always seems to remind you. We should see less of them.”
“But Hank’s your mate…”
“Yeah. So are you. And it isn’t good, you fixating about that night. You’re the most important thing in my life. I don’t like seeing how this eats away at you.”
I kiss him again, then sink back in my chair, turn my face up to the sky and watch the clouds changing shape as they ride across invisible currents. He strokes my forearm.
“Nullah?”
“Yeah?”
“About that night. Something I’ve been wondering about and I really have to ask you. About dead bodies—was your experience with them—that is, were you really an auxiliary cop?”
When he doesn’t answer, I sit upright and study his profile. He doesn’t face me. Instead he lowers his chin to look down as if he’s just noticed his sandals are on the wrong feet.
Carly and Hank come out with the salad, glasses, and the pitcher of margaritas and deposit everything on the table with a clatter.
“Nullah?” I persist.
He turns his head to face me and says, “yes.”
Something about his lips tightly pressed together and his eyes narrowed leads me to believe the man I thought could not tell a lie is doing just that. And something about the set of his jaw tells me I shouldn’t ask again.
“Okay?” he asks.
Is it okay? I don’t know. Do I really want to know more? I realize I don’t. I manage to summon a smile and answer, “okay.”
“Good,” Nullah breathes out loudly, sits up straight and turns to the others to say, “hey, Hank, about tomorrow. We can’t go check out at that lot of yours after all. Turns out we have a conflict.”
***
The Feeder
Copyright © 2020 by Gayle Siebert.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is reviewers, who may quote short excerpts.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or a
re used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Nanaimo, The Dinghy Dock, The Lighthouse Bistro, Silva Bay Marina, Dodd Narrows and Cedar by the Sea are real places and are accurately portrayed in this story.
Idyllbeck Opportunities, publisher.
Dear Reader:
As with some of my other books, The Feeder began as a short story. I had just finished The Spirit Bear Secret and had no other stories rattling around in my brain clamoring to be brought to life, so I decided to experiment with this old story, telling it in first person present tense, changing the point of view character with each chapter. It was fun to write, and I hope you liked it.
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Gayle Siebert
June 2020
The Feeder Page 20