I had some vague idea that I shouldn’t show fear, but maybe staring at her was the wrong thing to do. Maybe I was supposed to drop my eyes, back away, play dead.
I had no idea. All I knew was that I would not, could not stand the thought of Bridget watching me being torn to pieces by a bear. And then enduring the same fate herself. I remembered reading that bears eat their victims alive, going after the organs first.
Without blinking, I let go of the saskatoon branch I was still gripping with my right hand and bent my knees, feeling around for a weapon.
That took one second.
My hand found a large dead branch on the ground and my fingers closed around the smooth wood.
That took two seconds.
My small movement triggered something in the bear’s brain. She dropped to all fours and charged. Her body flew toward me like an enormous hairy cannonball.
Bounding twelve feet across the clearing took her three seconds.
The adrenalin pumped through my body like water shot from a firehose. I dropped the pail of berries and raised the branch over my head with both hands. The beast was travelling so fast I feared that her speed and momentum would cause her to trample right over me.
I filled my lungs and screamed again with every ounce of air. I didn’t even recognize my own voice. I wasn’t screaming with fright. I was screaming to frighten the bear. I sounded like a creature from another planet.
I spread my legs and braced myself for the impact. If she knocked me down, I would roll into a ball, try to protect my head and my internal organs.
The bear screeched to a halt three feet away like a train whose engineer had slammed on the brakes. Her powerful front legs stiffened and she stopped dead. Our eyes were still locked. The bear was so close now that I could smell her foul breath, see strings of green saliva hanging from her jaw and shining on her furry chest.
I lunged forward and brought the branch down on the bear’s snout with all my strength. There was a dreadful cracking sound as the stick splintered in two pieces, leaving me gripping the short jagged end with both hands. The bear’s head reared back, and blood spurted from her black snout where the splintered stick had broken the skin.
She turned and bolted away.
Three giant leaps and she was across the clearing and into the brush. The crashing was tremendous as she hurtled through the trees. Immediately the cub followed, scampering across the clearing and disappearing into the opening left by its mother.
I dropped my branch and ran, too, vaulting toward Bridget like a racehorse bursting out of the starting gate. I snatched her up into my arms and sprinted toward the house. All I could think of was putting as much distance between us and the bear as possible.
I now understood what people meant when they said that fear gives wings to your feet. I fairly flew along the path beside the creek. Bridget didn’t make a sound, but she wrapped her legs so tightly around my waist and her arms around my neck that we were like one thick body. My legs were burning by the time we crossed the yard and bounded up the back steps.
I threw myself into the back kitchen and dropped Bridget onto the floor before I slammed the door as if the hounds of hell were after us. I took a few wobbly steps into the kitchen before my legs gave out, and I fell onto my hands and knees. I was sobbing and gasping, and tears spurted from my eyes onto the linoleum floor. I had to pull myself up by grabbing the edge of the kitchen table, and then I collapsed into the rocking chair. Bridget crawled onto my lap and clung to me wordlessly.
For a few minutes I couldn’t move or speak. Twice my pulse slowed slightly, and then the fear returned with a rush and my heart began to race again. The scene replayed in my mind — my terror, my determination to battle the bear to my last breath, and then its astonishing headlong flight.
Suddenly I started to laugh, almost hysterically.
I had saved my child’s life.
“Mama, are you laughing or crying?” Bridget stared at me anxiously.
“Both! Bridget Jane Bannister, your mother just fought off a grizzly bear!”
My voice was hoarse after my unearthly screaming. My heart was still pumping with pure adrenalin, but now it was caused by joy rather than fear. I was filled with a wild exhilaration. This must be how a climber feels when she summits Mount Everest. Or how a boxer feels when he delivers the knockout punch. I jumped to my feet and raised my clenched fists over my head, still laughing.
Bridget threw her arms around my waist. “You’re the best mama in the whole world!” For the first time since she was born, I agreed with her. I was the best mother in the whole world!
The power flooded through my veins. I felt as if my body had tripled in size, just like the bear when she stood on her hind feet and roared. I wanted to roar, too. In that moment, all my insecurities fell away. That person who used to be me, that timid, cowering little girl hiding inside my adult body, was gone. In her place was a strong, brave, confident woman. I really believed that there was nothing I couldn’t do.
I had survived the loss of my parents, and the betrayal of people I trusted. I had experienced the worst that this hostile environment could throw at me, and I was still here, not only in one piece but stronger than ever.
I felt like Mary Margaret Bannister — the original one.
July 10, 1925
Much has been written about men who leave the old country to free themselves of the constraints of class and money. Yet the prison of gender is so much stronger! Had I stayed in Ireland, I would be a bird fluttering at the bars of my cage, but here am I free to soar at will. I watch the other women in this land of promise trying their wings, filled with new confidence, and I have now determined there are three distinct types.
The first is the European peasant, who is accustomed to the most extraordinary hard work. She is immensely robust and rarely sees a doctor, even in childbirth. These hardy souls labour in the fields along with the men. I have even seen one of them yoked to a plough! Yet she and I are not so different. I believe that we share the same dedication to this new land, the same deep connection to the earth.
The second is the town type, who makes a heroic effort to maintain her social standards against all odds. Lucy Francis still changes for dinner every evening and uses white linen tablecloths although the rest of us have given over to oilcloth. Her home is her castle, and she avoids the outdoors. “I know as much about farming as a cow knows about Sunday,” she told me proudly. I admire her determination, although I cannot share it as I was only too happy to pack away my parasols. Heaven knows what Lucy would think of me if she knew that I wear breeches at home!
The third type is the “natural pioneer,” to whom all difficulties are challenges to be tackled with keen enjoyment. These women embody the qualities that once belonged to men alone. Helen Flint can “bust a bronc” as well as any cowboy. She is so strong-minded that she is known as “Helen Highwater” because nothing will stop her! Mary Lindquist is a proficient hunter. She has a sixth sense that tells her when a moose is in the vicinity, and she never comes home to her children empty-handed. Amy Johnson is the mother of fourteen, the youngest of whom was born prematurely and so tiny that she kept him in a roasting pan on the oven door while she helped her husband with the haying.
Happily, I find myself in the third category! The wilderness has tested me, and I have not been found wanting. I daresay I could take up my own homestead — and make a success of it, too. I am dismayed that the Canadian government will not allow women to stake a claim while women in the United States have the same homestead rights as the men. I’m keenly interested in a book called Wheat and Woman, by Georgina Binnie, published in 1913. Miss Binnie took over her brother’s quarter section in Saskatchewan when he gave it up, and she has worked as hard as any man. I sympathize with her outrage over the Dominion Lands Act of 1872 that specifically excludes single women from homesteading. She is leading the charge on Ottawa, but with little result.
Perhaps now that Canadian women have the vo
te, there will be a change in attitude. Women in all three Prairie provinces received the vote in 1916, followed by Ontario in 1917, and finally the whole of the Dominion in 1918. I am eager to reach the age of twenty-one so that I, too, may cast my first ballot.
Thankfully George insisted that we visit the land titles office in Juniper and register both quarters of land as joint owners. I never imagined as a girl back in Ireland that I would someday own a half-interest in three hundred and twenty acres!
The title even bears my full name: Mary Margaret Bannister Lee. This simple piece of paper gives me more pleasure than anything else I could imagine.
Days remaining: twenty-seven.
26
July
I was chopping fresh green beans and tiny new carrots straight from the garden into my homemade vegetable soup, inhaling the rich fragrance, when Riley started barking and a red Honda Civic pulled into the yard. It was Lisette.
I went outside to greet her, smiling until I caught sight of her face. Her stiff pompadour of curls was flattened on one side as if she had slept on them, and her pretty eyes were red and swollen. Even more alarming, her outfit was mismatched, a pair of purple pants and a red blouse.
“Lisette, what’s wrong?”
“Can we go inside, Molly? I have to talk to you about something.” Lisette’s pale lips were trembling and she was on the verge of tears.
“Yes, of course.”
Bridget and Wynona were cleaning the log cabin, with a broom and a bucket of water, for use as a playhouse. It was a pleasure to hear them chattering happily away. I still hadn’t told either of them that we were leaving. I couldn’t bear to spoil their mood.
I ushered Lisette into the living room, where the drapes were open and the sunshine illuminated my newly polished hardwood floor. I had washed and dusted the whole house again, determined to leave it in the best possible shape, even though I knew it would likely be left to rot as soon as our backs were turned. We sat down in the armchairs before the fireplace.
“Molly, I have something terrible to tell you. It’s about Franklin, I mean Mr. Jones.” She fairly spat out the words. Her eyes filled with tears, but she wore an expression of steely determination. “The fact is he’s been more than a boss to me.”
“I guessed you had feelings for him,” I said cautiously.
“I have feelings for him, all right, but not very nice ones.” She took a deep, shuddering breath while I waited for her to confess the affair. She must have driven all this way for a sympathetic listener.
“It’s over between us. But that’s not what I came to tell you.”
“It isn’t?”
“No. Of course, he’s been lying to me all along about leaving his wife so we could get married. But this is a lot worse than cheating on his wife and telling me a pack of lies. It’s what he’s done to you!”
This time she really did start to cry. She dabbed at her streaming eyes, leaving black smudges of mascara under them. “I’ll just come right out and say it. Mr. Jones has been stealing your rent money. I didn’t know anything about it, Molly, you have to believe me!”
“But he always paid the rent.”
“No, he hasn’t! Not all of it!” Lisette was talking rapidly now, as if the beaver dam had burst open and the pent-up creek was rushing through the gap. “He’s been paying you based on an old rental agreement that expired years ago. It was drafted in 1980 when Mrs. Bannister first rented her farm to Cliff McKay. But there’s a new one now. In fact, there’s been a new one every five years since then!”
Obviously she didn’t understand how these things worked. “I know there is a new contract drawn up every five years, Lisette, but the terms haven’t changed since 1980.”
“But the terms have changed! Colin McKay is paying $4,000 a month for renting your land! It’s much higher than the going rate! It’s extortion, really, because the crop isn’t worth that much. But Mr. Jones had power of attorney, and he could demand whatever he wanted. Colin was so desperate to keep that farmland, not to let it fall into the hands of an oil company, that he signed the contract.”
Surely Lisette was mistaken. Her newfound hatred for her boss must be clouding her judgment.
“That doesn’t make any sense. What did Mr. Jones hope to gain by asking for more rent? The money wasn’t his.”
“Molly, you don’t understand! He’s been depositing the $4,000 cheques every month, and then paying $400 in cash to you, and keeping the difference! He’s nothing but a common crook!”
She burst into fresh sobs. “Not only was he stealing your money, but he wanted to drive you off the farm so he could sell it. He’ll get a kickback from One Way Energy when the farm is sold. The commission will probably bring him another few hundred thousand dollars!”
I was starting to get a hollow feeling in my stomach, but I still couldn’t quite believe what she was saying. “Lisette, are you absolutely positive about this? How do you know?”
“Last month my computer broke down and I had to check the service warranty. While I was looking for it, I found a ledger in his bottom desk drawer, one that I had never seen before. I opened it. Well, the evidence was right there in black and white, but I was still hoping there was some mistake. I’ve been stewing about it for a couple of weeks, but it wasn’t until this morning that I finally worked up the courage to phone him at his Edmonton office and ask him about it.”
Lisette held her handkerchief to her streaming eyes. “Molly, he laughed at me! He offered me a bribe to keep my mouth shut! He actually offered me cash, as if I could be bought and sold like some cheap hooker! Oh, every time I think about it I just want to go and have another shower!”
I sat rigidly in my chair as my mind tried to encompass this shocking information. So Franklin Jones had been robbing me blind. My mind sorted slowly through the facts again, wondering if there wasn’t some other interpretation for his actions.
In my heart, though, I knew that I was just stalling for time.
I felt as if I’d just been hit with a stun gun. It wasn’t the knowledge that I was the victim of a malicious crime. It was that Colin McKay was perfectly innocent.
“Please don’t hate me, Molly. I should have suspected something long ago. I mean, who gets paid in cash these days? But the envelope was always sealed so I didn’t know that you weren’t getting the full amount. Oh, I’m such a fool!”
“Of course I don’t hate you, Lisette.” I could barely move my stiff lips.
She wiped her eyes and blew her nose again. “As soon as I hung up, I called Ted Ratcliffe and told him everything. He heads up the local RCMP detachment. We went to high school together. Anyway, there’s already a warrant out for that slimeball’s arrest. It’s going to be an awful scandal, Molly, and I’m afraid you’ll be dragged into it. You’ll probably have to testify in court. Oh, you must hate this country now!”
“Lisette, please try to calm down. I promise I’m not angry with you. I’m going to put the kettle on. I think we could both use a cup of tea.” I rose on trembling legs and went out to the kitchen.
While I forced down my tea, I assured Lisette somewhat mechanically that I didn’t hate her, or Canada. Fortunately, she was so eager to share her pithy observations about the character of one Franklin Jones that I didn’t have to say much. She finally left after a flurry of hugs and promises of undying devotion. I stood motionless in the yard as the sound of her car faded down the driveway.
I now knew what the expression “sick at heart” meant. It felt as if my heart were pumping poisonous black bile instead of blood. I had been terribly, horribly mistaken about Colin McKay. There was nothing to do but make a full confession and apologize.
Through the pounding in my ears, I heard the faint hum of a machine. I rushed out of the house, ran down to the creek and along the path toward the dam. I could see a figure seated on a red tractor, pulling a mower. Colin was cutting the thick grass in the meadow beside the pond.
The guilt choked me like a bone stuck i
n my throat. I couldn’t wait another moment. I took three running leaps across the stepping stones and mounted the other bank. I set off toward the tractor at a fast walk, my chest heaving.
Once again, I had allowed my past to poison my present. I hadn’t given Colin the benefit of the doubt, hadn’t even had the courtesy to ask him about the contract. Instead, I had instantly leaped to the conclusion that he was a hypocrite.
In math, it was called the transitive property: if A equals B, and B equals C, then A equals C. This is how my twisted logic ran. If I am attracted to a man, he turns out to be a lying cheat. I am attracted to Colin; therefore, he must be a lying cheat.
I could see the false logic now, lying there below the surface like the San Andreas fault. I remembered the expression “dumb like a fox,” meaning that you looked and acted dumb, but you were really clever. I wondered if there was an opposite term for people like me, people who looked and acted smart, but who were really, really dumb.
I broke into a run, my arms pumping, my hair flying around my head. The mounds of cut grass were lying in rows, each about three feet across. I tripped and fell headlong into one of them. The fragrance filled my lungs. I scrambled to my feet and kept running, green stalks clinging to my clothes and my hair.
Colin didn’t see me at first because he was looking over his shoulder, watching the grass falling into neat rows behind him. Then he turned his head, and the tractor drew to a halt. He jumped down from the cab and started walking quickly toward me, probably wondering what new crisis was underway.
Colin looked much the same as he had the first time I met him. His clothes were dirty and stained with sweat, his thick hair was matted to his forehead, and his face was drawn into a scowl. And I knew without a doubt that I loved him as I had never loved another man.
The awareness flooded my body from brain to fingertips, along with the knowledge that I had lost him forever because of my own stupidity. I was still running toward him, and now without warning I burst into giant, heaving sobs.
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