The Hour of the Fox

by Kurt Palka

  * * *

  —

  In the evening Aileen and Franklin saw the small beam of the flashlight in the dark, stopping and pointing up trees and moving on, the pale robe at times, and at times also a small gleam or reflection on Margaret’s face.

  “What’s she got on?” said Franklin. “Glasses or something?” “Safety glasses,” said Aileen. “She told me. She’s wearing them against the branches in the dark.”

  “But why? I mean, what’s she doing out there?”

  “She told me and I sort of understand, but it’s hard to explain.”

  “Try me.”

  “You’ll think it’s weird.”

  “What if I don’t?”

  “She’s going back a while. The other day she started looking for a book about trees she remembered, a children’s story. And the thing is, I remember it too. Trees talking to each other. The love and kindness among them, their roots all in the same soil. Don’t smirk, or I’ll stop telling you anything any more this minute.”

  “No, no. Go on.”

  “It came from England, kind of like the Curious George book. It was sweet and it was a popular book in our days. She was looking in her dad’s work shed at the back of the boathouse, and that’s where she found the safety glasses and his ring binders with notes about the forest and a textbook on trees and lumber.”

  “Charles’s notes? When he did all that planting?”

  “Yes. Eighty-eight truckloads of soil, it says in the notes. She told me. He made notes on all the native trees he planted there, the ones he wanted to preserve after some of them were practically wiped out by the shipbuilding. Bicycling all over and scratching around for seedlings, he was, among deadfall in the clear-cuts.”

  “And why is she out there now? In the dark?” “Probably because she can’t sleep. Why else? And she’s working things out.”

  “What things?”

  “Just things, Franklin.”

  They watched from the picture window, leaning forward to see Margaret’s little light winking and moving and pausing among the trees, heading back up the slope to her house now.

  “She might trip out there,” he said. “And she might drive off the fox.”

  “No, she won’t drive off the fox. She likes it here, and she trusts us by now. The fox does. I heard her tonight before you came up. And all those cars today were an exception too. I think she knows that.”

  “The fox knows that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t you go soft on me too now, Aillie.”

  “I’m doing nothing of the kind. And neither is Margaret. She’s planning to identify all her trees. Put little labels on them. She says creating order calms her.”

  * * *

  —

  When Franklin left she watched him from the window in the half-dark. His bright windbreaker, his unruly white hair, heading for the path down to his place. He was carrying a flashlight because he’d fallen on these rocks more than once already and he had a bad knee.

  When she couldn’t see him any more she turned into the room and picked up the glasses and carried them into the kitchen. Out the window her old Vauxhall was the only car on the rock. Danny was away in his truck, on his south loop again.

  She tidied the kitchen and turned out the light and headed up the narrow stairs to her bedroom. She thought of Grandmother Dotty in her wooden shoes clomping up and down here. Danny once said it was like living inside a guitar, especially once the fall wires were up.

  She opened her bedroom door and in the dark stepped around the bed to the window and opened it wide to the night air and all the sounds she loved.

  Eighteen

  THE POLICE DRAWINGS of the two men and the dead young people arrived by courier. Margaret signed for the package and slit it open and put the pictures on the kitchen table. There were several copies of each, all pasted to art board trimmed to size. The images were very good. She telephoned Aileen to come and see them.

  “This one here,” said Aileen. “The smiling one, it’s so good it could be from a photograph. His pinched lips. And the eyes on both of them. Still gives me the creeps. And the kids, dear God. She’s beautiful. And the boy looks sweet.”

  An hour later, Margaret put the pictures on the passenger seat and drove along the shore road to the church. The sun was going down behind the town, dark red dipping into a cloudbank, red in the sky and the edges of the clouds golden. Two ospreys circled motionless in some high vector like hands on a clock, the white and grey on their heads and chests bright orange in the setting sun.

  She parked on the church lot and then crossed the wooden bridge to the rock. Inside St. Peter’s she walked down the centre aisle and around the altar and past the vestry to the small office Reverend McMurtry kept there.

  When she heard a typewriter she hesitated for a moment, then she knocked. The typing stopped.

  “Come in,” said his strong voice.

  He sat at his desk, turned sideways to face the typewriter on the pull-out tablet. He put on his glasses and stood up. “Mrs. Bradley. Margaret.” He walked around his desk and offered his hand. He pointed at the wooden chair in front of his desk and swung another one in from the wall.

  “What can I do for you?”

  She passed him the sketches of the children. “I imagine you’ve heard about them, Reverend. They were found dead under the dock at Crieff Island.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard. Sergeant Sullivan and a detective were here, and they showed me the forensic pictures. Not these.” He sat looking down at the images and shook his head. “Terrible.”

  “Isn’t it. Reverend, I’m wondering if we could post the pictures in the church notice box. In case someone saw them.”

  “Yes, of course we can do that. And what about the notice box at AJ Hall?”

  “Well, there I’ll be posting the pictures of the men who may have murdered them. I don’t want them side by side in the same window.”

  “No,” he said.

  He looked down at the pictures. The celluloid in his collar was the whitest thing in the room.

  “And there’s something else, Reverend.”

  “Yes?”

  “I would very much like to have a funeral service for them here in our church. And a burial in our churchyard.” He sat back in the chair and looked at her.

  “They died in our community,” she said.

  “I know. But a funeral, here. And we don’t even know who they are. Or where they’re from. Have the bodies been released by the authorities?”

  “I don’t know. Is that a yes?”

  “No, it’s not a yes, Margaret. I need to think about it. A funeral service and a burial is no small matter. Also, there have to be parents somewhere.”

  “That’s what the police are trying to find out. These pictures are in wide circulation now. I’m asking in case the parents can’t be found.”

  “So let’s wait. Rather than make hasty decisions about funerals. In the meantime I’ll post these in the notice box. And I’ll mention them in the announcement part of our Sunday service.”

  * * *

  —

  On the way back she stopped at AJ Hall and let herself in with her key. In the office she sat at the desk and hand-printed a note:

  URGENT!

  HAVE YOU SEEN THESE MEN?

  IF SO, PLEASE TELL SERGEANT SULLIVAN.

  She closed up the office and walked out into the hallway, and in the notice box pinned up the pictures side by side and her note underneath them.

  When she drove home it was nearly night. At the turnoff to her house she saw the eyes of the vixen and her two cubs bright green in the headlights. She stopped the car and switched off the lights and the engine. When her eyes had adjusted she could see the outlines of them against the brighter rock. The mother was standing absolutely still with one front paw raised, watching the car, the cubs crowding her. Then the mother set down the paw and nosed them along, and soon they were gone among the bushes.

  * * *
>
  —

  That day Aileen had found a nurse who was willing to talk to them about a serious blood loss case, and in the morning they drove into the city to show her the pictures. Aileen sat in the passenger seat, not in jeans or cords this time, but in a print dress and leather shoes and a fall coat, with her good purse in her lap.

  In places there was dense fog again, and Margaret slowed down and switched on her low beams and the flashers. Then the fog lifted and the sun came out. Leaves were turning everywhere. Bright gold on the birches, deep orange and wine-red on the maples.

  “She doesn’t want me to tell you her name,” said Aileen. “And I promised no names of the doctors either, okay? Remember that. I know all about the nasty politics in a hospital. She and I pulled many shifts together, in Emergency quite often, and when Clearwater closed she got hired in the city and moved there. She’s younger than I.”

  In the city they waited in the parking lot by the hospital side entrance until the nurse came out and saw them. Aileen introduced Margaret and then moved to the back seat.

  The nurse seemed nervous. She pointed to the far corner of the parking lot. “Let’s go over there, can we? And I have only a few minutes because my break is almost over.” She turned in the seat and said to Aileen, “I shouldn’t be doing this at all, but I told you I would, and so here I am. How are you, Aileen?”

  “I’m all right, thanks. I could use more shifts, but I’m gett’n by. And you?”

  “So-so. Fine. How is your boy?”

  “He’s doing well. He’s got the boat and he’s making good use of it. But now this strange thing, the dead kids and these scary men.”

  “I know. Times are changing, Aileen. It used to be we knew every last person around here. Not any more.”

  When the car was stopped again Aileen handed the sketches forward, and the nurse took them and studied them.

  “This one,” she said.

  “The smiling one,” Margaret said to Aileen in the back seat. To the nurse she said, “You’re sure? Excuse the question, but are you?”

  “Oh, I’m sure. I was in Emergency when they came in. I think it was the other one that brought him. Kind of reddish hair?”

  “Yes.”

  “They spoke Spanish with each other. The injured one was white as a sheet. The one who brought him in said they’d been out on a fishing boat as paying tourists and his friend tripped and gashed himself on some equipment. We’ve seen some of those injuries and it could have been, and so we didn’t ask too many questions. They weren’t exactly dressed for on the water and they couldn’t remember the name of the boat, but with foreign tourists you never know.”

  “So you checked him in,” said Margaret.

  “We did. He had one long, deep gash in his left arm. Bad, but with a tight tourniquet on it, made from his shirt sleeve. The first thing they did was clamp him and give him blood. I don’t know how many units. Then they wheeled him into the operating room.”

  “For how long was he in the hospital?” said Margaret. “Not very long. Four, five days. Must have been a good healer. When he checked out, the friend brought clothes, and when he was dressed they put his arm in a sling. The friend paid cash in American dollars.”

  “When he came in, was he wearing both shoes?” said Margaret.

  “No, he wasn’t,” said the nurse. “Now that you mention it. But that’s not unusual in a trauma case. A missing shoe is nothing. In a car crash they lose their watches. Rings. Their teeth. And this was just a loafer.” She looked out the window and across the parking lot. “I should be going.” “A loafer,” said Margaret. “Was it a pretty fancy loafer?”

  “It was soaking wet. All his clothes were.”

  “Just the shoe,” said Margaret. “Was it the right shoe he had on, and did it have a yellow metal bangle across the instep?”

  “I don’t know about right or left. And a bangle. I can’t…” The nurse looked around out the windows. “I should go.” “Just this last question, please.”

  “Well, I think maybe it did have a metal bangle. The shoe came off when they put him on the gurney and I picked it up and put it beside him.”

  * * *

  —

  On the way back to Sweetbarry, Aileen said, “Maybe that’s why he kept his left hand in his coat pocket the whole time. A sling would have been too noticeable, so he used the pocket for support. What are we going to tell the inspector? I don’t want her to get into any kind of trouble.” “She won’t. When the police come and ask questions they can say they’re following up on the telexes to hospitals. So this one won’t feel singled out. I’ll mention all that to the inspector when I call him. But anyway, I don’t think they did anything illegal. An accident on a fishing boat would have sounded quite plausible.”

  * * *

  —

  Later that day she called Sorensen from the telephone in the boathouse.

  “I can now tell you that we found the hospital where the smiling man was treated for a life-threatening gash in his left arm.”

  “Can you! Where?”

  “Remember our deal? I said I might want to ask a favour in return.”

  “Yes. And I said it depends on the favour.”

  “I want the bodies of the two young people released into my care, and I’ll look after them and get them a proper funeral here in Sweetbarry.”

  There was a silence.

  “Released to you. Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Someone needs to take care of them.”

  “We’re still searching for the parents.”

  “I’m saying if you can’t find them.”

  “It’s a bit unusual, but I can put in the request. I can’t make any promises.”

  “The request is all I’m asking for.”

  “There’ll be forms to fill out and sign. With unclaimed bodies, disposal is usually done without fuss through the morgue. Are you really sure about this?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “All right. So tell me what you found out.”

  * * *

  —

  That evening she tried to reach Jack. She called him from the kitchen phone. She dialled the number twice, but each time there was only the answering machine with her own voice on the tape. You have reached the home of Mr. and Mrs. Bradley…

  The second time, she left a message asking him to call back because she did want him to know that something had changed within her. Like a door opening. A way forward.

  In cooler moments she could see it to be unusual, an attempt to rewrite laws writ in blood at the very dawn of life, but in moments like now, in this nighttime kitchen in this old wooden house, it seemed wonderful and so very plausible, and not in any need of explanation.

  What she wanted was to be entrusted with these children. To make them hers and to be allowed to do the right thing by them. The right thing this time, since these would be the last children she would ever be entrusted with. Having somehow lost all her others.

  She picked up the phone again and hung it up. There was no reason to think he was home, but it was possible. Or he might be on his way home. She waited for a long time for him to call back that night, but he never did.

  Nineteen

  WHILE SHE WAITED and hoped to hear from Jack and Reverend McMurtry and Sorensen, she worked on her files, had tea with Mrs. Herman, and helped Aileen and Franklin make wine. Waiting and hoping was not something she was good at.

  “The women of my mother’s generation,” Grandmother had once said to her, “and even of mine, too many of them, that’s all they ever did. Wait and hope for a man to come and change their lives for them. And then get bitter and blame everyone else if it didn’t happen. I never believed in that, and don’t you either, Margaret.”

  But now there was no choice other than to wait and hope, and the winemaking helped. They used the mash with the skins, and sugar and some of last year’s wine as a starter, then they covered the fermenting jars with tea towels and set them down out of the way in a
corner in the parlour. Once in a while Aileen would have to remove the covers and push the risen heads back down with the masher. In a few days, if the alcohol content needed boosting, they’d add sugar to feed the yeast some more.

  And one afternoon, sitting with Mrs. Herman in her parlour with the sun on the rose wallpaper, Margaret talked about one of Andrew’s last summers out here, when she and Jack had nearly three weeks off at the same time, which was rare, and Andrew could get ten days’ leave. They took a cruise on a schooner north around Cape Breton and back down and south through the Strait of Canso, past Port Hastings and Mulgrave. Sleeping in narrow berths, just the three of them and another couple and a small crew. All the amazing wildlife, seals on the rocks at Cape North, whales blowing. Jack and Andrew and she had spent hours looking out, sun-warm and happy the three of them. Pointing things out to each other. Look! Look! The little puffins that seemed to be moving through water with the same short wingbeats that they used to move through air. They ate meals on deck and talked and laughed.

  “I think the schooner was the Annabelle,” she said to Mrs. Herman. “Out of Halifax.”

  Mrs. Herman, who was a bit hard of hearing, smiled and nodded.

  That cruise had been one of the last things they’d done as a family. There was a photograph of the three of them on her dresser, arms around one another’s shoulders, the boy between them, Jack and Andrew unshaven, everyone grinning.

  * * *

  —

  Late on Sunday Jack finally did call. He said he’d just come from the airport and picked up her messages. There’d been a delay, he said. The mine owners were unhappy with the assay results, and additional test drills would be necessary. He sounded tired.

  “How are you, Margaret?”

  She said she was fine, mostly. Better, out here. She told him about the men who’d come to see Aileen, about the pictures of the men and the children, and that they’d found the hospital where the wounded man had been treated.