by Sophie Weeks
Margaret tried to open the jar of pickled onions, but it was sealed so tightly she couldn't budge it. Apologetically, she held it out to Gene. “Do you mind?” She avoided his gaze, though, still displeased with her earlier lack of vocal gratitude and uncomfortable because of it. He took the jar from her hand and opened it easily.
Then he frowned. “Best get a fresh jar. These have gone off.”
“Gone off?” Margaret looked surprised. “But it is a fresh jar.”
Gene shrugged and fished out a slimy, limp onion ring with his fork. “Spoiled somehow.”
“Okay … I'll throw them out.” Margaret took the jar from him and threw the disgusting, spoiled onion pickle into the trash. Then she went to the pantry and took down another jar. She scrutinized the cloudy water unhappily. Another jar was the same, and then a fourth. And behind the onions there were beans, and then courgettes. All the same. All spoiled.
Margaret shut the pantry with a bang. She didn't say anything, just went back to the table without a word. Gene gave her a curious look, but no one else said anything or seemed to notice. Overall, it was a sorry, silent supper, and Margaret leaned her cheek on her hand, trailing her bread through the soup and nibbling on it. More rot. More loss. Tomorrow she'd have to throw out all the preserves.
Jon came down midway through the meal, but he didn't eat much or say anything, for that matter, except, “Your grandmother is lying down. Don't disturb her tonight.”
The phone rang, and Margaret got up to answer it. “Hi, glamorous girl,” came a familiar voice. “I heard you were home.”
“Christopher …” It was strange hearing his voice again after such a long gap. Like being called from the corridors of memory. “Yes, I am … definitely home. For now. Where are you? Ottawa, your dad said.”
“Not right now, actually,” Christopher said, sounding amused. “I got a call from my dad the other day. Bunch of sick cows on the reserve. I made a few phone calls, and … well, I flew home.”
“Yeah, it's getting pretty serious.” Margaret paused, then said, “Are you here in an official capacity?” That felt bizarre to say, artificial.
“Tentatively,” he said, a little diffident then. “Mostly doing Dad a favor.”
“Right.” Margaret went into the office and shut the door. “Have you had a chance to look at the cows?”
“I've looked at their tissue and blood. Stephen gave me some samples. It's not BSE.”
“But what is it?”
“That is something we'll be exploring for some time,” Christopher said wryly. “I'll be getting samples from an official autopsy tomorrow.”
“I didn't know the government moved that fast,” Margaret said.
“You'd be surprised, when it's a public health issue. Food Inspection Agency is setting up additional offices in Red Deer right now. I guess that's as far from civilization as they can hack.” They both laughed.
Margaret sobered quickly, though. “So what's the bottom line for us?”
“There'll be a destruction notice soon. Everyone for fifty miles around at least will get it. Probably tomorrow.”
“That's pretty much what we figured. This isn't going to get fixed for a while.”
“Nope. Right now the epidemiologists are doing their thing, looking for a source of infection.”
“Right. This is the worst intellectual puzzle ever. What about the rot? My dad's alfalfa rotted in the silos in like … a week.”
“Thanks for bringing that up. We're looking at it. The quarantine's being extended to all organic matter right now, excepting people. People seem fine. Horses seem fine too, but they're being careful. It's easier to justify quarantining horses than a whole community of people.”
“Bonne-maman's pickles rotted in their jars. She only put them up a couple of weeks ago. She never messes up the canning.”
“And the beans from my grandma's garden are all molded. I know, Margaret. Probably you should go through and clear out all the food that was produced here.”
“So all my groceries have to come from town. Fantastic.”
“Listen, I didn't call just to tell you this stuff—you'll be getting official visits and notices pretty quick. I just wanted to ask if you wanted to go for dinner tomorrow, catch up. I can take you down to Calgary, treat you to someplace fancy,” he teased.
“I'd really, really like that,” Margaret said, after a moment's thought. “I need a break.”
“Me too, and I've only been here for a day. I'll pick you up at six.”
“Okay. Bye, Christopher.” Margaret smiled a little bit as she ended the call. Christopher was, in a way, her road not taken—a road she had never known would go so far or so fast. They had never had one iota of chemistry, as they'd learned from that long-ago kiss, but they'd remained good friends.
Margaret went into the kitchen, got a box of trash bags, and headed down to the cellar to start cleaning out the food.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE NEXT MORNING when Louise came downstairs, Margaret was sitting at the table, looking at a box of crabapples. The fruits were firm and crimson, just as they'd been when packed away the month before. “What are you doing with the apples?” Louise asked.
“I ate one,” Margaret said. “They're fine.”
“Why wouldn't they be?”
Margaret led her grandmother to the kitchen window so she could see the enormous pile of black trash bags. “Everything else. All the other fruits and vegetables. Everything from the garden. I'll have to ask Gene to take it to the dump later.”
“You threw it all out?” and Louise's eyes flashed anger. Her mouth became very small and tight. Margaret didn't like seeing her beautiful, generous grandmother look like that.
“Bonne-maman, it was bad. All of it. Rot, weevils, mold … it was disgusting.” Margaret pushed her hair back wearily. “But this wasn't. This one box.”
“Are those from the tree by the gate?” Louise sat down, picking up an apple. “Yes—those crabapples.” She looked at Margaret. “What is happening to this place?” she asked.
“I don't know.” Margaret was stirring a pan of oatmeal. “It's some kind of epidemic or blight. It doesn't seem to affect people or horses. That's what Christopher said, and that's what we've seen. I guess we can add crabapples to that list.”
Sam wandered into the kitchen yawning, followed by Emilie, who ignored the oatmeal in favor of toast. “Can we stay home and help?”
“Help what? Systematically put down the cattle? Yeah, you'd be a big help.” Margaret dished out a bowl of oatmeal and watched as Sam coated it in honey. “That looks so disgusting.”
“You forgot to put the apple butter out, apple butter is the only way I can eat it without gagging,” Sam complained.
“I'll pick up some more at the store,” Margaret promised, and added it to the shopping list she'd made last night. She stirred some raisins into her oatmeal and sat down to eat. She was tired and unhappy and mostly just confused. This had hit with all the strength of a biblical plague, but what sins could they and their neighbors have committed? Margaret didn't exactly disbelieve in God, but a God that had Hilltown County in his crosshairs had some serious issues with priorities.
Jon came down, looking exactly as he did every day, and Margaret poured out his coffee quickly. “Dad. Need to talk to you after breakfast.”
“Yeah.” He rubbed his face and drained half his cup in one gulp, glancing slightly at Louise, then down at the table.
“Emilie, Sam, you're going to be late,” Margaret reminded them. She actually sympathized, slightly, with their urge to stay home. She couldn't imagine sitting in a classroom trying to process everything that was happening right now. But it was better to keep to routine. She piled the dishes in the sink and murmured her thanks as Louise began washing them.
In the office with the door closed, Jon asked, “What was that call last night? You came in here last night and didn't say a word to anyone afterward”
Margaret drew in a deep breath
, then gave him the gist of the situation. “So your bad year is at this point pretty much as bad as it can be. Everything's sick or dead or ruined.”
“And now I get to wait for the government to figure out what's wrong.” Jon sounded rueful, but calmer than Margaret had expected. She supposed after the big shocks he'd been facing, this was just one more. Then he actually chuckled. “At least you've got the big connections.”
“Dad,” Margaret protested, then said, “Actually, Christopher's taking me to dinner tonight. It's been a long time since we saw each other.”
“You should go into town and get your hair done.”
Margaret looked at him blankly, that being pretty much the last suggestion she could have imagined coming out of her father's mouth. “What, you want me to seduce Christopher into having the quarantine lifted? That's not gonna work, Dad.”
“No, no …” He waved his hand as if to wave away her silliness. “But it might cheer you up. You've been working pretty hard lately.” Finally, in the face of her continued disbelief, “It was something your mom used to do.”
“Oh great.”
“No,” Jon interrupted, seeing how she was interpreting him. “A long time ago, when you were real little and very annoying. Every now and again she'd go into town and have her hair done. She looked like a million bucks, and it was a nice break for her. I always …” He fumbled for words. “I always thought it was a good idea.”
“I guess it is,” Margaret conceded. She stared out the window at the brown, wet fields. “I wish it would snow again. It's so ugly like this.”
“I imagine you'll get quite as much snow as you want this winter.” He gave a long sigh. “Well, the grocery bill just got doubled, near enough. Even the stuff in jars?” He began counting out bills with a weary and helpless expression.
“Everything. Only that box of crabapples is left. I should take one of them to Christopher—maybe they have some … I don't know. Maybe there's a reason they didn't go bad.” Margaret took the money. “I'll be as careful as I can.”
“I know. There's no help for it. Just … hate to see money going out with nothing coming in.”
“I know the feeling.” Since Margaret had left home, she had always had at least a part-time job every year. Now she was stuck asking her father for grocery money. It wasn't a pleasant regression. Margaret tucked the money in her pocket and said, “Have Gene haul out the trash today. There's a lot of it, and it's not going to get any less gross.” Looking at Jon from under her lashes, she added, “Did he tell you why he wanted to stay?”
“Not really. Just said there wouldn't be much work going around here anyway, and he'd as soon stay on a while. I try not to look gift horses in the mouth.”
“Right. Just wondered.” In truth, she'd been thinking about it all night, and wondering what to say to Gene—if anything. Would he care what she thought? Impulsively, Margaret wrapped her arms around her father. “Love you, Dad. It'll be okay.”
“I'm supposed to say that to you,” he chided gently, patting her back. “Go on, then. Those groceries won't buy themselves.”
Margaret found the rest of the morning, away from the ranch, refreshing. She did, as her father had suggested, get her hair done, and she was surprised at the lift it gave her to see her hair coiffed into soft curls instead of falling messily about her face as usual. It made her feel more like the Margaret she'd been in Ontario, Margaret who went to plays and galleries, confident Margaret who was always the first to speak up in class.
But when she turned off the road on the long drive up to the house, it was hard not to feel her spirits sink again. Fun as it might be to think about what she was going to wear to dinner that night, the unhappiness of the place was nearly palpable, and she could see dark clouds of smoke in the near distance: they were burning the corpses of the cattle.
Sighing, she began to unload the groceries from the truck. Then Gene was beside her, silently lifting bags and helping her haul them. “Thanks,” she said in a soft voice. “I appreciate it.”
He just nodded, and Margaret was unsatisfied. When they had the last of the bags inside, she said, “No, I mean it. You're doing so much for—for my family, and it means a lot to me.”
Gene looked at her, his head cocked slightly. He was a dark-haired young man, no more than thirty certainly, but he already had the weathered face that marked a man who made his living out of doors. “You look pretty. Going out tonight?” he said, ducking her thanks.
She nodded. “An old friend is back in town,” she smiled.
He nodded slightly. “Have a good time” was all he said before he headed out the door. Only then did it occur to Margaret that he ought to have been helping with the cattle and to wonder what he was doing around the house.
Out the window, Margaret could see Rob lugging his bags out to his truck. She went out to see him go, since Jon was still out working. “I'm sorry about your job,” she said.
“Yeah. Me too. Been here ten years.” Rob looked around and wiped the back of his hand around his mouth. “It's a pretty spread.”
“When we get back on our feet …” she said hesitantly.
“Yeah. That's what your dad said.” Unsaid was the fact that they might never get back on their feet, that it was entirely possible this was the beginning of real loss.
“Do me a favor?” Margaret said. “Let me delete those photos of Em?”
“I'm not going to let you go through my phone,” Rob protested.
“Why? How many pictures of topless teens do you have on there?” Margaret snapped, wrinkling her nose.
“Just the ones your cousin sent me,” he said tersely. “And if a man likes to have something to look at sometimes … well, that's his business.” He spoke calmly, but in a final tone, and he was already moving around to the cab of the truck. “Take care, Margaret. I hope things turn around real soon.”
Margaret gave a sharp hiss and stalked back into the house. She'd hoped to just delete the pictures and not have to worry anymore that they might get around. But probably if they hadn't yet, they wouldn't. She'd just have to let it go.
Margaret was absentminded as she put together lunch, and quiet through it, though she was hardly unusual in that—the meal was appropriately solemn, despite a little black humor from Jon about the “barbecue” they'd been at all morning. An unpleasant look from Louise silenced him.
When the men had gone back to work, Margaret sought out her grandmother, screwing up her courage, for as delightful as Louise could be, she was formidable in a temper. “Bonne-maman,” she said, when she found her grandmother scrubbing out the bathroom with manic precision. “You shouldn't be working so hard. The doctor …”
“Said that moderate exercise is good for me,” Louise said sharply. “Unless you'd like me to take up tennis, housekeeping is good enough.” But in one of her volte-faces, she did stop then, and turned to smile at Margaret. “Besides, your hair is too pretty for scrubbing toilets. You're quite the little gamine with your curls.”
Margaret returned the smile but still looked serious. “You have to stop being so hard on Dad,” she said softly. “It's not his fault.”
Louise pursed her lips then. “This should not have come upon us so unexpectedly. Jon should have noticed those cattle were ill.”
“No one noticed until Stephen found there were so many sick cows,” Margaret protested. “And if we'd known a day sooner, so what? We couldn't just feed the cows soup and make them well! Dad's killing himself trying to please you, trying to keep things together.”
Louise held up a hand finally. “Very well, Daisy, I understand. I shall try to hold my nasty old tongue.” She shooed her granddaughter away. “Now go away. I can handle the housework perfectly well for an afternoon, and it helps me think.”
“All right, but call me if you need anything,” Margaret said reluctantly. The relief from housework wasn't unwelcome, but it did feel unusual to be idle at mid afternoon. Margaret went into her bedroom then and began surveying her
closet for her “date.” Everything felt too Ontario and not Alberta enough, and though that would usually recommend them highly to her, Margaret felt dissatisfied. She fell on a long brown velvet dress with short sleeves, savaging its hem, then began rummaging through her stash of fabrics and notions. An old cream-colored pashmina had not quite reached the end of its usefulness, Margaret decided, cutting and pinning at a whim, till the dress fell in a confusion of chocolate and cream.
At times like this, Margaret was at her most happy and creative. She had always sewn her own clothes and often designed them, but when she graduated from college at twenty-three and found herself doodling designs all through her summer internship at a large investment firm, she decided that taking herself seriously might require her to be just a little less serious. Since then she'd thrown herself into studying fashion design with the same focus and discipline that had made her a successful horsewoman years before.
She carried her invention into the small sewing room where Louise had first taught her to sew and sat down to coax the old machine into doing her will once more. She still had her good machine in a box up in the attic, but for a simple task, this would do. She worked with a will, and when she was done, the dress was a lively blend of color and texture that was also soft and subtle; she was pleased.
As the early winter sunset fell, Margaret followed the ritual of getting ready that she had learned years ago from Penny and Louise. Makeup first, so as not to soil her dress. Margaret carefully heightened her natural prettiness, layering light and color to create a more sophisticated effect. Then on went her dress and her perfume too, without which, Louise always said, a woman was naked no matter what she wore. Then jewelry, which required careful consideration. Margaret finally settled on a simple amber pendant and earrings so as not to look too overdressed, though knowing Christopher, fancy meant fancy. He'd never been satisfied with the reserve, or with Hilltown County, for that matter. Talent had made him a microbiologist, but a burning need to keep the squalor at arm's length drove him, Margaret knew.