Shelter

by Frances Greenslade

  “Did you hear that?”

  “What?”

  “It sounded like someone calling.”

  We both stopped to listen. Nothing. As we began walking again, I heard it again, a two-syllable word that sounded a lot like my name.

  “I heard it that time,” Vern said.

  “What did it sound like to you?”

  “A woman’s voice, calling someone.”

  “Yeah.” I tried to shake the feeling of anxiety that had overtaken me. Who would be looking for me? Who would know I was here?

  Suddenly a shape burst out of the trees from behind us and streaked off leaving a wake of shaking underbrush.

  “Jesus Christ,” said Vern, his hand to his heart.

  “I think it was a dog.”

  “How could you tell?”

  “I just got a glimpse of the tail.”

  Then in front of us appeared a woman in a raggedy leather jacket, jeans and rubber boots. A rifle hung from a strap over her shoulder.

  “You better get in out of this wind,” she said. “Storm’s coming. You never know what trees might come down.”

  Vern and I were so surprised we both just stared at her.

  “Just looking for Laddie, my dog.”

  “He ran by us,” I said.

  “Chasing something,” she said. “There was a small plane went down in here a few days ago. Wreckage still hasn’t been found, but I saw it come down. Did you come across anything?”

  Vern and I shook our heads.

  “If you do, come and let me know. I’m camped down the road about a mile. You’ll see it. Blue tent.”

  “Sure,” Vern said.

  “Some government people on the plane, the RCMP said.”

  A gust of wind piled into the woods and the treetops bent to their limits.

  “Better get inside,” she warned us again and disappeared into the trees.

  “The road’s got to be close,” Vern said. We hurried ahead, and he was right.

  The car was nowhere in sight at the spot where we came out, but we were pretty sure we were too far south.

  “That way?” I said, and Vern nodded.

  After about five minutes, we could see the scree piled at the bottom of the mountain.

  “Thank god,” said Vern.

  Once we were safe in the car, Vern said, “That was kind of weird.”

  “She didn’t look like the official search party.”

  He turned on the car and cranked the heat. “For a minute there, I thought someone was calling your name.”

  “Really?” I crawled over the seat to get my sleeping bag.

  “Cold?” said Vern. He helped me spread the sleeping bag. There was something in his manner, some restraint that I recognized in myself.

  “You?” I said.

  He nodded and I spread the sleeping bag to cover both of us. The wind hammered the car and whistled at the windows. There was too much to say, so we said nothing.

  Vern put his cool hand at the back of my neck. I turned to him. He pulled me close and I felt his warm lips on my neck. Then he cupped my face in his hands very tenderly and kissed me. Like sliding down that mountain road, the surrender.

  The windows fogged over. The car had stalled. Vern shut it off. His hands travelled from my neck to my shoulders, down my arms to my hands, which he held for a moment. Then he slid his fingers up under my shirt and cupped each breast gently. He fell against me with a moan. Ignoring the buttons, he pulled the flannel shirt over my head and halfway off my arms. His mouth moved down my neck and his tongue touched one nipple. I breathed in sharply. Vern made a noise like a small animal, pressed his hips against me and bucked and shuddered in my arms.

  We lay there like that, damp and hot under the sleeping bag, as dusk dimmed outside the fogged windows.

  “Maggie,” Vern said.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’ve been wanting to touch you so bad. I’m sorry if I …”

  “No. Me too. I’m glad. I mean I liked it.”

  He cleared a patch on the windshield and through it we saw a sliver of moon showing over the ridge.

  We put the back seat down and made pillows from our clothes and pulled the sleeping bag over us. Vern fell asleep right away. But I lay there listening to two coyotes barking close by and I worried. I couldn’t see how I would tell Jenny that Dad was not her dad, that we were only half-sisters and that Mom had a life we never knew about. I couldn’t think of a way to soften it. I decided I wouldn’t even try to tell her over the phone. I’d wait to see her in person, and even then, I’d wait. But when I thought of telling her in person that meant I had to think about where we would be, where we would live and whether I’d have to quit school or not.

  Whispering. “Maggie.” Louder. “Maggie!”

  I struggled to open my eyes.

  Vern was bending over me, his voice thick with sleep.

  “What?”

  “You were dreaming. Are you okay?”

  “Mom was calling me. I heard her. Just like today—Ma-ggie. She was standing there, holding Cinnamon and calling me. But when I got closer, it was that old lady from the woods and she was pointing her rifle at me.”

  “You’re crying. Don’t cry.” Vern put his arm under me and pulled me to him. “Don’t cry. Maybe we’ll find her. Maybe she’s in Bella Coola.”

  What would he think of me if I told him that the absence I felt right then like a hole scooped out of my stomach was not for my mother, but for my white and orange cat with her soft little chin and her purr like a tractor.

  [ THIRTY-TWO ]

  BELLA COOLA LAY DRENCHED and grey in the late morning light. Rain soaked a small white church, a faded totem pole and the paint-peeling houses of the reserve. We found a store and I went in and bought a can of beans, a loaf of bread, and a few barely ripe bananas. An older man was at the till. As he put my groceries in a paper bag, I said, “Do you know a Deschamps in town?”

  “Alice Deschamps? I know just about everybody, darling. There might be a few names I forget now and then, but not too often.”

  “Older woman, from the Prairies?”

  “That’s her. Her house is the red brick-sided one over by the river.”

  “Thanks.”

  We found the red house by the river. It was small and neat, with fake brick siding, sheltered by lilacs and with catmint and daisies drooping in the rain around the front step. I knocked at the screen door. No answer. I knocked again. The front drapes were drawn, but I thought I saw them move gently. Just beyond the edges of trimmed lawn, a dense forest of cedars and firs towered. I knocked once more, then went back to the car where Vern and I sat, ate our lunch and waited.

  When no one came after a couple of hours, we drove down to the docks. Rain pitted the water and soaked the cedars. Moss ate at the old silvered wood of a rotting pier. Blue, green, grey, greyish green, greenish blue, bluish grey. Only the orange, rusted tin roofs of the cannery buildings and the docked boats with blue and yellow and red trim interrupted the monochromatic landscape. A man in a pickup truck pulled over by the side of the road and sat with the engine idling. The cannery roof slanted at the same angle as the deep green mountain behind it and the snow-covered far blue mountains behind that. This was the end of the road. To go any farther, we’d have to get in a boat and wind our way along the river, through cloud-shrouded mountains and out to the ocean.

  Vern and I decided to make phone calls. Vern called Uncle Leslie, but there was no answer. I called Sister Anne.

  “She’s out of the hospital, Maggie. She’s staying here for now with Sunny. They’re both doing very well.”

  “So she’s better?”

  “She’s much better. They’re monitoring her medication, but she’s been clear-headed. She’s taking good care of little Sunny. Do you want her to call you?”

  “I’m in Bella Coola,” I said. “She could call me at the pay phone, I guess.”

  I gave her the number and we arranged for Jenny to call at five o’clock. T
he rest of the day, as Vern and I took muddy back roads and poked around dripping rainforest and fast-flowing creeks, I thought about what I could say to her.

  But at five o’clock when the phone rang right on time, I didn’t need to say anything.

  “Maggie, you wouldn’t believe how cool Sunny is. She’s got these serious brown eyes and she’s always watching everything. The nuns say she has an old soul. They don’t think she’ll give me any trouble. I’m so glad I named her Sunny—it’s perfect for her. And she smiled at me the other day, I forget what day that was, when she was feeding. And she’s growing like crazy. You’ve gotta see her. We’ve been out in the stroller. I’m starting to like Vancouver. You can just walk to the store and buy flowers and all kinds of fruit. What are you doing in Bella Coola?”

  “Wow, Jenny, you sound really good,” I said.

  “I feel so much better. That was pretty weird for a while there, eh? You must have been freaked out. But this is the best thing that ever happened to me. I mean, not the freaking out part, but Sunny. When I think I almost gave her up, it makes me cry. I look at her and I just start bawling my head off, thinking what an awful thing that would have been. She’d never have known her mother.”

  “That’s great, Jenny. So, I’ll call Sister Anne again in a few days, okay?”

  “Wait. What have you found out about Mom?”

  I hesitated. “I told you about the car.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Not too much more yet. But there’s someone in Bella Coola who might know something. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Maggie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Now that I’m a mother, I can’t believe she’d just walk away. I hope you know what I’m getting at.”

  “I think so.”

  “Okay. Well, see you soon then. You won’t believe how big Sunny’s getting.”

  “I can’t wait to see her.” I hung up. I was glad that I had not said anything to disturb Jenny’s joy.

  The next day, while Vern went to the docks to try some fishing, I walked over to the red house and knocked again. This time, when the curtains moved, I saw a cat poke her head around the fabric, her little white paws clinging to the window ledge. She looked at me furtively and disappeared. I tapped the window with my fingers. I wanted a good look at her face, but it couldn’t be a coincidence. It was Cinnamon.

  I pounded on the door. No one answered. I felt the tears rising. My cat. Who was this woman who had my cat? I went around the house and tried the back door. I thought of looking for a screwdriver, popping the lock. I even checked the windows, after first making sure no neighbours were watching me. Then I sat on the step and waited until I got too chilled and wet to sit there any longer.

  Vern and I had made a little camp down a logging road that night. We built a fire in the evening and watched the sky finally clear above the woodsmoke and trees. When I stood to stretch, Vern stood too and took my hands. I moved into him and felt him stiffen against me. He unzipped my jeans and slipped his hand inside. When my knees gave a little he caught me by the small of the back. It was glorious to be standing by the fire with the stars shining on us, the lonely road, the fragrance of the towering cedars and Vern’s hands moving over my body.

  “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “I know we can’t go too far.”

  And so I didn’t worry. We opened the back door of the station wagon and stretched out on the sleeping bag, our heads hanging out to look up at the stars. Our skin was as moist as the air and dimpled with the pleasure of fingertips mapping muscle curve and nipple and smooth line of dark hair on belly.

  [ THIRTY-THREE ]

  “CINNAMON,” I SAID and bent to pat her. She was sitting right at the door when it opened.

  “What did you call her?” the woman said.

  “Cinnamon. Isn’t that her name?”

  She studied me. “I didn’t name her. My nephew gave her to me. She’s an old cat.”

  “She’s not that old. She’d be about five. She’s my cat. I named her Cinnamon.”

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Maggie.”

  “I don’t know you.”

  “Margaret Dillon.”

  “I’m sorry, no. I don’t know the name. Who are you looking for?”

  “I’m looking for Emil.”

  She studied me again. “You better come in then. Sit. You can move those buckets. I’ve been out picking berries.”

  She looked nervous. She wiped her hands on her apron. “Would you like some tea?”

  “Please,” I answered. When her back was to me, I said, “Is he still alive?’

  She turned to me abruptly. “You’re going to have to tell me who you are.”

  “My sister is Emil’s daughter.”

  Alice, Emil’s aunt, piled the counter with potatoes, onions, carrots, and celery as I sipped my tea slowly, waiting.

  “I’m making fish soup. I could use some help.” So, while she cleaned and cut up the salmon, I chopped the vegetables. Cinnamon came and sat patiently waiting for her share of the fish trimmings. Alice made up a small plate and handed it to me. I set the plate on the floor, smoothed Cinnamon’s fur and watched her eat.

  “She was the runt of the litter,” I said. “I had to feed her goat’s milk with an eye dropper to keep her alive. She was just tiny. I got her just after my dad died. My mother is Irene.”

  I could feel Alice stir at the name.

  “Do you know her?” I asked. I handed over the chopped celery and she put it in the soup.

  “I know the name. I never met her. I didn’t know she had children.”

  “I haven’t seen her in three years.”

  Again Alice bristled, then sighed.

  “Emil is my brother’s son. He’s artistic, always was. Grew up kind of a quiet boy, very serious. Not like his brother. I think that was hard for him. Edward was everyone’s favourite. He died suddenly when they were teenagers and Emil never really got over that.

  “I always had a soft spot for Emil as a boy. He used to climb into my lap and sit watching the world. That was when he was really little. But I didn’t really know him as an adult until I moved out here. He came out to visit me and he ended up buying a boat. I understand he met Irene around that time. I didn’t see him again for many years. A couple of years ago now, late summer, he showed up at my door in the middle of the night with the cat. Your Cinnamon—I just call her Puss.” She looked at me apologetically. “Emil didn’t tell me her name. He was in no state.”

  He had been thin and wild-eyed, barely recognizable. He had only come to ask her to take the cat. He had not even spent the night, only left the cat after making her promise she would take care of her and then he had gone. It was months more before she learned where the cat came from and the story it was a part of.

  Alice promised me she would tell me all she knew. But she said it was a story that should be told in safety and that she wanted me to spend the night and the next day with her. I said I would.

  I walked down to the dock to find Vern and we drove back to Alice’s house together.

  “You sure, Maggie?” he said.

  “I’m sure,” I said.

  “I’ll come round here tomorrow afternoon.” He had a hold of my hand and seemed reluctant to let go. “Sleep well,” he said and leaned over to hug me. “It’ll be just me and the bears tonight.”

  All that evening, Alice and I kneaded dough, rolled out pie crusts and cleaned berries.

  Alice told me she had left Manitoba in 1955.

  “I ran away,” she said.

  “Ran away from what?”

  “My husband. I had inherited some money from my sister. She knew what was going on in our house and when she died she left money to me and to Emil. I didn’t actually have the money yet, but I couldn’t wait. I had enough for a bus ticket to Calgary. Then I hitchhiked. I wanted to go somewhere my husband would never have heard of. I got a ride from a logger who was heading to Bella Coola. He told me about this roa
d that had been pushed through a couple of years before. Told me it was called the Freedom Road. And that convinced me that it was the place for me. Mind you when we drove that road, I didn’t think I’d live to enjoy my freedom.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing now compared to what it was.”

  Before bed, the counter was laden with fresh buns and berry pies.

  “You need to get some sleep,” Alice said.

  I had waited this long and I would have to wait some more. I could hear the river from the spare bedroom where Alice had made up the bed for me. The room was chilly and I pulled up the extra blanket. I heard the rain coming down hard again. Vern would be listening to the steady rhythm on the station wagon roof. In the middle of the night I woke hot and tangled in the sheets, dreaming that Vern was touching me. A sweet ache spread from my centre out to my limbs, my fingers, my toes. I tried to open my eyes, to remember where I was, but I was held on that warm, soft edge of sleep. There was a sound, familiar and comforting, in the room. It was Cinnamon, purring beside me, her warm body curled against my back.

  In the morning, we didn’t eat breakfast. Alice gave me a cup of weak tea. She led me to the edge of her property and into the bush. We followed a muddy path through the trees to the rocky river’s edge, then down along the riverbank until we saw smoke rising from a fire on a strip of pebbly beach. Two young women were tending a fire. They smiled at me as we approached. Not far from the fire was a shelter made of a frame of bent branches covered with blankets and canvas. The rain had stopped in the night and the mountains and sky were bright-washed blue. The river tumbled cold and clear over rocks. One of the young women dipped a pot into the flow and scooped the fresh water into a barrel. She did this several times. Cedar smoke scented the air. The other woman gave me a flannel nightgown to put on and asked me if I was wearing any jewelry. I wasn’t. The women and Alice put theirs on a bench beside the fire.

  When everything was ready, we went into the shelter. Blankets were pulled down over the door. The darkness was total. Water hissed and a blanket of steam enveloped us. My heart slowed. My eyes closed. The heat burned the surface of my skin, then seeped still deeper into my bones and loosened them.