Sweet Karoline

by Catherine Astolfo

  I know I sound bitter, but as the days go on, anger builds inside me for the deceptions Vera perpetrated. Memé, Vera, Ian, my sister/cousin Elizabeth, Karoline, Giulio. Were they all complicit, all guilty, of hiding the truth from me? And if so, why?

  Once Dembi, Miriam and our mother are tucked into bed, I call Ethan. My conversation doesn't exactly feel intimate, since the only telephone in the house is located in this parlor room, but for some reason I trust that my siblings respect my privacy. Again I jabber on about the day and my discoveries.

  "I wish I were there with you," Ethan says when I take a breath.

  The longing in his voice makes me feel both guilty and happy. I haven't felt as lonely as he. My day has been filled up with two new people. Yet I'm glad to my core that he misses me.

  "I wish you were, too," I respond and I mean it. How amazing it would be to share this adventure with him. "I'm so sorry we're apart. But I have a feeling that I have to do this on my own. Especially now that I've discovered Miriam and Dembi. And Memé, of course, though I'm still so…I have to admit that I'm angry with a dying woman. That's really horrible of me, isn't it?"

  "No, I'd say it's really human of you. What would be horrible is if you acted on the anger."

  I flush with the thought of my hateful whisper in her ear. Ethan's right. My actions will make the difference between the new me and the person I used to be. I am suddenly ashamed and vow to clean up my behavior.

  "You're so wise," I say out loud. "I'm still a bitch learning to be nice."

  He laughs and the sound sends shock-waves to my toes.

  "If you could see me at work these days, you wouldn't think I'm wise. Honey, I do understand that you have to do this journey on your own. I would just be in the way of your new relationships. Anyway, even if you were here I'd barely see you. I've been working on this damn case twelve hours a day."

  "Oh, Ethan, you must be exhausted."

  "Trust me, I am. But we're close, so close. We'll be rounding up the perps any day."

  "I'm picturing you on a white horse riding down Ventura," I say, just so I can hear that laugh again.

  As I walk down the quiet hallways to my room, I hear the shifting of the trees in a night wind. Little mouse feet scratch behind a wall. A squirrel or a raccoon tramps across the roof tiles. It's so quiet in the country that the background noise of other inhabitants sounds like drum beats in an empty tavern.

  Suddenly, I am almost certain I can hear Memé whisper 'Diable' in my ear. I race back to my bedroom, shut the door and lock it, then bury myself under the covers. I'm not sure I like my new life. It's frightening and haunted. It takes a long time to finally reach unconsciousness.

  Dear Diary,

  I may sound bitter. But I'm really not. I exacted my revenge and I'm content. It's too bad I didn't see her face when she realized what I'd done, though.

  Chapter 17

  The next morning Dembi and I resume our gold-seeking adventure. We are even better prepared than last time. Drinks, snacks, as well as lunch are packed in the picnic basket. Insect repellant, sun lotion, hats and trowels in a backpack. Shovels in our hands and rubber boots on our feet.

  "You look like real explorers," Miriam says.

  Dembi holds up his shovel. "Gold diggers!"

  We don't dare laugh in the face of his seriousness, but we smile indulgently at one another. Miriam stays back with Memé. Hopefully, she'll receive some word from the agency about a caregiver.

  The low cloudy ceiling keeps the insects buzzing around our faces as we plunge into the forest once more. I'm glad we sprayed repellant, but I still find the helicopter-ing by my head annoying. Once seated on the rock in the cool dry church, birds complaining above, I feel far more relaxed. Dembi lets me hold the Book of Vryheid on my lap.

  What a curious inheritance we have! Descended from one of fifteen very brave families who left their comfortable, though sometimes abusive, situations. It must have taken a great deal of courage for the lot of them to break away from the relative safety of Brant's protection to strike out on their own. How ironic that our branch tumbled down over the decades to become drunkards and half-wits.

  I flip quickly through the pages from the early 1800's. More angst, crop failures, deaths, disappointments. The handwriting of those who kept the records changes constantly, getting steadily less flamboyant and neat. In 1954, the records stop altogether. Over two hundred years of history abandoned in a hole under a church altar.

  Each of the fifteen original families have several pages devoted to their trees, as long as anyone cared to fill it in over the years. Some are meticulous and detailed, while others are pretty sparse. But every one of them ends on April 11, 1954. I don't bother dwelling on that date. I am here as a treasure hunter for my brother's happiness.

  Dembi and I search, dig and talk for a couple of hours. We eat our lunch under the noisy canopy of birds inside the abandoned church. The flat section of the altar rock is becoming very comfortable indeed.

  My brother turns out to be really good company. His knowledge of the history of slavery in Canada is astounding. My mother Vera always led me to believe that her birth country is a haven for all people, devoid of racism or hatred. Naturally, that isn't true. Human beings are simply not perfect, wherever they may live. And of course, Vera is certainly capable of embellishing. A polite way of saying that she's a liar.

  Dembi loves delicately searching through the Book of Vryheid. Some of the stories are tales told by visitors to the area. Perhaps people who are traveling further up river in search of nirvana. There are mentions of flights through 'de underground railway, on de Abolition line', up the Grand River from Buffalo and Niagara Falls, often landing in nearby Paris, Ontario, where there was a 'safe house'. They used the Quaker Quilts, in which secret directions were sewn, to guide them.

  I wonder if some of the quilts at Memé's could possibly date from that period. Maybe the original farmhouse was a beacon of safety, too. They'd be very valuable if they were.

  The descriptions from these fugitives portray far more difficult and treacherous lives than the slaves of Joseph Brant experienced. Perhaps old Joe was a hero, after all. Perhaps this is one thing that Vera got right.

  There are many pages of sketching done by a very talented artist. One picture depicts a long dress with lace at the neck and sleeves. It's all in pencil, with no color, but I imagine a lovely mauve. A penciled pail hangs on a hook over an old fireplace. A kettle and frying pan huddle on the shelf. An old weigh scale.

  The drawings are fascinating. Their placement in the book, plus the objects themselves, suggest they were drawn in the early 1900's. So far we have traced one hundred years forward in little Vryheid's history. Over the years, some of the families left and several fugitives from slavery took their places. The population, however, remained fairly small. Most people likely went to the larger centers for work or land.

  The Millers moved to Burford to open a grocery store in 1856. The Cotters relocated to work as 'skilled laborers'. Nowadays, Burford feels like a stone's throw away but that's by car. On foot or horseback would've been a very different trip.

  The city of Brantford must have seemed like another world. Some enterprising soul had recorded a few noteworthy news items from the 'big city', such as the execution of two ex-slaves. Perhaps the writer was trying to deter any more Vryheid inhabitants from moving out of the safe little enclave.

  Whenever I get bored and antsy reading the book, which is often, Dembi and I scamper out to dig for gold. I have never experienced such exhilaration. Though I don't have much faith in really uncovering a treasure, I enjoy the physicality of the adventure and the fresh air. The activity constantly reminds me of Bell Canyon, out on the trails with my other trio, the sky filled with birds and the air with the scent of flowers.

  We discover a small cemetery at the rear of the church, mostly overgrown with weeds. Stone monuments have crumbled back into the earth. Grave markings are now indistinguishable. We spend a long ti
me in the graveyard, wondering if this was a good place to bury gold.

  When we return to the church for our afternoon snack, driven inside by the intense sun, we look at some of the parchments and pictures that are jammed inside the book. A few of the scrolls have crumbled into tiny pieces, an aged ash left behind. One has been preserved in a kind of leather sleeve. It's a deed bequeathing the land upon which the actual village of Vryheid stood to Cornwall Johnston, dated 1920, and 'in perpetuity'. I sharply suck in my breath. Obviously Vryheid was not sold off along with the rest of the parcels. Does Memé now own everything?

  I wonder what happened to the other residents. Had the village been abandoned in 1920? But no, here are further news reports. Life in the early 1900's described in detail by various authors. No more mention of slavery by then, thank goodness. Canada had had her birth. Wars had been fought. Vryheid had struggled on. Had it ever been incorporated as a village, or had it merely been a gathering of clans? Eventually to be owned by only one of them. No wonder the historian in Burford was interested. And she hadn't even seen the Book of Vryheid.

  In 1918, there is a list of men who'd gone off to war and beside them, whether or not they returned. This battle really decimated the male population. It's difficult to tell how many people would have been left in the village, especially since the tradition of mentioning only the males continued. Maybe the dearth of males was the reason Vryheid had been purchased by or given to the Johnstons?

  If the entrenched tradition of male ownership continued into the 1920's, how had Memé inherited everything? Or had she? Was she living on the land through her missing brother's charity?

  The tiny squares I spied before indeed turn out to be pictures. Delicate little pieces of black and white history. Dozens of them, mostly of indistinct faces, men with arms crossed or pitchforks or shovels in hand. Others of wooden houses that surrounded the stone church. Some of the church itself in all its newly constructed glory.

  Despite the lack of success in the gold department, Dembi and I are in a great mood as we trek back home. We are tired and hot, covered with dirt. Grass-stained but happy. We stand for a long while above the gushing river, basking in the breeze that trails through the little valley shaded by the chestnuts and oaks that lean over the water. When we finally turn up the lane toward the farmhouse, the sun streaks over the trees toward the west.

  "Hey, Dembi, let's see if Miriam got a helper for Memé," I say. "If she did, then next time Miriam can come gold digging with us."

  "Yippee!" He claps his hands. "Let's go see Miriam and Memé. Maybe Other Anne will come back."

  He obviously hasn't absorbed the fact of Karoline's death.

  When we enter the cool dark house we are met with silence. Dembi skips along the hallway calling out for Miriam. I don't hear her answer but she must have, for my brother whistles his way toward Memé's bedroom. I don't plan to go anywhere near there. I stop in the kitchen to deposit our picnic paraphernalia. I am washing my hands at the sink when I hear Miriam walk through the door behind me.

  "Did you get a response to your helper request?" I ask without turning around.

  My sister says nothing, so I continue to dry my hands and swing around to face her. She is stiff and silent, her face pinched and furrowed.

  "They finally got one candidate who will come out here," she says, as though she has spent days on the project, slogging uphill to no avail.

  "That's good," I say, as though it's a question.

  "No one else would come out here. We won't have much choice."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean I was told by the supervisor that most of their casual staff are too afraid to come out to our place."

  I sit down, clutching the towel, and stare up at her lovely troubled face. Her eyes are clouded by something. Mistrust? Fear? I'm not sure.

  "I don't understand."

  She sits down across from me. "They believe the place is haunted."

  "That's ridiculous. It's the 1980's, not the 1880's."

  "Most of the casual workers are older women who have lived here a long time. Some of them are retired nurses or assistant nurses. They're native to Burford. They have only one person who will agree to take on the job."

  "Did you ask what they meant by haunted?"

  Miriam nods. She still looks odd.

  "They say a witch burned down Vryheid in 1954. April 11. And two people died. After that, everyone deserted the village and the farm except our mother."

  I almost laugh but choke on it instead. Miriam's look is too fierce to brook any levity. I haven't even had a chance to tell her about Vryheid and the fact that it's attached to the farm property.

  "But that's ridiculous," I repeat. "How can people these days believe in witches? Even in 1954, it seems…"

  I suddenly recall the death dates of our uncles, Philip and John. April 11, 1954. I stop talking. The silence is weighty.

  "Do we at least have the opportunity to interview this single candidate?"

  "She'll be here in a few minutes, as a matter of fact."

  "Good. Maybe she'll be able to tell us something. Miriam, what is it? What aren't you telling me?"

  "I'm just freaked out. I didn't tell you this before, but there have been weird things happening. Doors slightly ajar to the outside. Little things missing, like an ornament that I could have sworn was there the day before…stuff like that. I'm spooked, to be honest."

  Uncertain about how to react, I pat her hand. "It's probably Dembi. He wanders a bit, as you know. Plus even though I've only been here two nights, this place is pretty spooky in itself. Memé has been behaving strangely, then hearing this crap about a witch…" I stand up and replace the hand towel on its rack near the stove. That's when I notice the slow cooker is bubbling, a rich gravy underneath its glass lid.

  "Miriam, you're not alone now. You have me. We're in this together." I put my arms around her in an awkward hug, but I feel her relax a little.

  "You made dinner, too, I see. You are so thoughtful, you know that? Do you think we have time to eat before the candidate comes?"

  Miriam glances at her watch. "Not really. But we should feed Dembi. Can you wait 'til after?"

  "Absolutely. I'll just go and change."

  "I'll set him up in the television room. He'll be thrilled that he can break the rule of not watching TV while eating. Then we can do the interview in peace."

  At last, she smiles.

  In my room I change into clean shorts and a golf shirt, one that has a Grace Productions Crew stitched into the pocket. Nervously I check the outside door and the windows, but they are locked tight. I am beginning to get spooked too, which is, I repeat to myself, ridiculous. I do not believe in witches and I do not think the ghost of one is prowling through the house. Another thing to research besides gold and slavery. Where did this witch story come from? How was the Vryheid fire started?

  Back in the front hallway Miriam introduces me to a large black woman dressed in a flowered smock. She has a round, motherly face and eyes that shine with mirth. Her soft enormous hand encircles mine firmly. Her hair is a ball of tight dark curls that harkens back to the sixties. She's the kind of woman that everyone must instantly like.

  "This is Melody Fischer," Miriam says. "She's a retired registered nurse. Melody, this is my sister Anne."

  "Retired?" I ask. "You must be older than you look."

  Her face is unlined, a smooth dark chocolate complexion that makes her appear to be in her forties.

  "I'm sixty-eight. Fat is a great wrinkle filler."

  She gives a deep-voiced chuckle, a pleasant sound that makes me want to laugh along with her. Miriam and I just smile.

  "You two must be the missing Johnston twins," she continues. "I'll never be able to tell you apart."

  "I never wear green," Miriam quips, pointing to my t-shirt.

  This time we all chuckle.

  "Come on into the kitchen, Melody," Miriam says. "We can have tea while we talk. Or coffee if you'd rather.
"

  "Tea is perfect. And please call me Dee. I hate to sound like a song or something. Thanks to my parents for being whimsical, but I never did like my name."

  "Oh, I love it," Miriam says. "Imagine being named after a figure in the Bible, like I was. So boring."

  "At least she was one of the more exotic Biblical characters, though. Lots more interesting than Anne. Now that name is boring. I always wanted to be a Melody or a Christina or something."

  We continue the idle chatter until all three of us are gathered around the table with tea things.

  Miriam and I have not discussed the interview, but though I have been through hundreds of them with scriptwriters, directors or even actors, I know this is closer to Miriam's field. She immediately senses that I want her to take the lead.

  "You know a lot about us, Dee."

  I think it's a brilliant prompt.

  "I do know some, yes. I've met Libby and Dembi, along with Larue many years ago. I just learned about the two of you recently."

  It's an odd feeling, realizing that not only is she our one and only candidate, but that Dee also knows more about us than we do. Certainly more than we know about her. Once again Miriam is brilliant as well as a mind reader.

  "Tell us a little about yourself, then, Dee."

  "I was born in Nova Scotia, so I'm not considered native to Burford, even though I've been here forty years. That's a small town for you." Again, that throaty laugh makes us grin at her. "I met my husband in Toronto when we were both at a medical conference. He's a doctor. He swept this big body off its feet and I followed him to Burford without a question. I have a happy marriage, three grown children and five grandchildren. I had a great career. I nursed mostly in Brantford, but worked in my husband's office in Burford for many years, too. When I decided to retire I thought I'd spend most of the time visiting the kids and grandkids, but they have their own lives. So I started to get bored. Tommy—my husband—is supposed to be retired, too, but recently he took a job with the local jail and he's been there constantly. So I joined the agency. I can pick and choose my jobs."