by Sophie Weeks
Still, she didn't know how any of this was going to go down or how long it would last before something went wrong and it was horrible and awkward. She gave Gene a fierce scowl when he said, “Wants to talk to you,” as he headed out the back door. Margaret gathered up her guts and went into the office.
“Sit down, honey,” Jon said. “And close the door.”
Somewhat reassured, Margaret did both things, flopping into the chair. “Well?”
“Well?” He lifted an eyebrow. “You're saying that to me? Your boyfriend is weird, Margaret.”
“What's that supposed to mean?” Margaret flared. “What did he say?”
“He said he respected me, liked working here, and hoped I wouldn't take it amiss if he took you out sometimes.”
“That is weird.”
“See? Are you sure you want to date that weirdo?”
“No,” Margaret said honestly. “But … he seems to like the idea. And I guess I don't hate it.”
“You guess you don't hate it?” Jon chuckled. “Well, I imagine that's about the highest praise you'd give anything from this province.” He continued laughing, and though it was at her expense, Margaret couldn't help joining in.
“He's not too weird,” Margaret said finally. “I don't know. We don't talk too much.”
“So that's how it is.” To her relief, Jon didn't look particularly shocked. “You know, I kind of figured. He's not your type.”
“I just … I like him,” Margaret said honestly. “He's the only person I can be with right now who doesn't drive me nuts. I mean, no offense.”
Jon rolled his eyes. “I'm only going to ask you one thing, Margaret. Don't ever come to me and ask me to send him away because you've had enough, all right?”
“I wouldn't do that,” Margaret said indignantly.
“All right,” Jon said. “Then I don't have anything to say about it, do I?”
She gave him a little smile. “I guess not. Though you sure had plenty to say when Alan came to stay.”
Jon thought about that a minute. “Things are different now,” he said finally. “I just want you to be happy.” At Margaret's lifted eyebrow, he said, “I mean as happy as you can be here. I know you hate it, I know you want to go back to Ontario. I'm not stupid, Margaret. But I would be if I came in with a heavy hand telling you what to do right now. You'd run far and fast then.”
“Not right now, I couldn't,” she pointed out.
Jon grinned. “You're a good rider. I can just see you leading those Mounties on a fine cross-country chase.”
“I heard old man Tilling tried that last week. They had to bring in a helicopter to spook his horse. Christopher said he's pushing for the human quarantine to be lifted, but they won't until he can identify the microbe and pronounce people clear.” Changing the subject, she said, “Emilie went upstairs after breakfast—do I need to take her to school?”
“No, she's grounded.”
“You grounded her from school? That's dumb, she likes her room way more than school.”
Jon looked sheepish. “Well, she cried a lot and begged and, uh … well, I gave in. No need for her to face those kids for a few days, anyway.”
“You old softie,” Margaret teased, but she was relieved to hear it. Maybe now Emilie would understand that Jon didn't hate her. Nothing would make the loss of her father and mother better, but she needed to know she could count on her family.
“I did dumb stuff when I was a kid too,” Jon admitted. “I remember how it felt. One night I drove home so drunk I couldn't even get out of the truck afterward. Dad came out, made me stand up, then laid me out with a right hook.” He winced a little bit, these memories clearly not pleasant for him. “The way Em looks at me … it's like the way Penny used to look at Dad.”
Margaret fidgeted uncomfortably. She had been young when her grandfather Carl died, but she still remembered his uncompromising nature. Still, she knew pretty well that anything she remembered was a drop in the bucket compared to the unhappy memories Jon had of Carl. Sometimes she wondered how Louise could have stood by and let her children be so harshly treated, but then Louise was of another generation.
Jon watched Margaret. “I was proud of you yesterday,” he said softly.
Margaret had a sense of what he meant, and she didn't want to talk about it. “It's okay, Dad, let's just … do you want to go into town and get some coffee? I haven't left the house in way too long, and I want to put off conversation with a certain boyfriend for a while,” she concluded lightly.
He looked around, then shrugged. “Not like I have anything else useful to be doing,” he said. “Yeah, let's go in, though we'll have to stop by the drop site on the way back.”
“Super.” The drop site was well policed and for good reason. A lot of people were scared enough to take more than their share. The RCMP in the area were well-armed; Margaret had heard secretly from Christopher that there was real worry of the local populace trying to shoot its way out.
“At least it gives me something to do,” Jon said bitterly, climbing into the truck. For Jon, who hadn't taken a day off in years, being on a nonfunctioning ranch with no stock was a horrible exercise in inertia.
But for Margaret it was kind of nice. Very used to hearing no from her busy father, an occasional yes and some time to talk were pleasant. Looking out the window, she saw Gene on a ladder, doing something to the side of the barn. “If he's writing 'Margaret and Gene Forever,' I'm going to kill myself.”
Jon leaned forward and peered. “Nope. Looks like he's fixing a hole, Miss Vanity.” When they arrived at the coffee shop, he laughed with pleasure. “Well, this is just a morning full of boyfriends for you, honey.” He pointed at a battered light blue truck.
“Bobby,” Margaret groaned. She hadn't seen Bobby since coming back to town. He had been her boyfriend for a couple of years in high school, but he'd gotten bored and restless when she began giving all her time to competitive riding. When he asked her to choose between him and Whisper, Margaret had had no difficulty at all in making the decision.
“So which'll it be?” Jon said, startling Margaret, who for a moment wondered if she'd spoken aloud. “Gene's back home, and Bobby's in the coffee shop.”
“Bobby,” Margaret said finally, climbing out of the truck. “I have cabin fever.”
“And here I thought you had ranch-hand fever,” Jon teased, then ducked away as Margaret tried to punch his arm.
The coffee shop was packed that morning, as it had been every morning since the troubles began. Diana, who owned it, was doing the best business of her life between locals who wanted to share news and government agents who had no choice but to stay in the area. Margaret stayed close to Jon as he elbowed his way through the crowd. “Diana,” he called loudly above the crowd. “For God's sake, let us sit down.”
Diana looked around helplessly, then gave Jon a little grin. She sashayed over to a table for two that was occupied by a couple of Christopher's scientific underlings. Slapping down the bill, she took the woman's cup of coffee and said, “Oh, look, this is cold, honey. Come on over to the counter and let me get you a hot one to go.” She led them away from the table, and Jon and Margaret hurried over to claim the spot. “You owe me one, Campbell!” Diana called over her shoulder.
Margaret laughed a little. “At least someone's doing well here.”
Jon didn't answer, though, and jerked his chin slightly towards something behind her head. “Hey there, Bobby.”
“Hey, Mr. Campbell,” came Bobby's voice.
Margaret cringed a little and turned around. “Hey, Bobby.”
“Hey, Margaret.” Bobby grinned at her. “Haven't seen you since that New Year party with your boyfriend.”
Margaret shuddered at the remembrance of that little failure. That was when she had brought Alan home for the holidays. Though Alan had liked her family and done his best to enter into the spirit of things, a New Year's party with some of her old friends had been too much for his soul to bear. He had
spent the whole night drinking water in the corner and then refused to kiss her at midnight because her breath was redolent of sangria-flavored wine coolers. “He's not my boyfriend anymore.”
“Can't keep track of Margaret's boyfriends these days,” Jon tossed in helpfully.
“Dad,” she mouthed at him angrily, then turned back to Bobby. “I heard you and Sally had a little girl?”
Bobby nodded happily and pulled out his old cell phone, pulling up a small grainy photo of a beaming little girl who was towheaded like her father. “Loretta. Like Loretta Young. Sally likes old movies.”
“Gorgeous,” Margaret said honestly, and she stood up to give Bobby a hug. It actually wasn't so bad to see him. Bobby hadn't been a bad guy; he'd just wanted a girl who'd stick close to home and bring him beers. Margaret wasn't that kind of girl for any man.
“Have you been hanging out with any of our old class?” Bobby asked.
“Uh … well, Christopher, of course. And I saw Kate, but I wouldn't say we hang out. Her daughter is Sam's best friend.”
“That weird little kid at the trailer park?”
Margaret raised her eyebrows. “Yup. She's a sweet kid.”
“Oh yeah.” Bobby quickly lost interest. “Anyhow, good to see you, I was just picking up some juice for Sally.”
“Married man,” Jon chuckled.
“Fresh every morning,” Bobby said, lifting the Styrofoam cup as he turned away.
“Ugh,” Margaret grumbled as soon as he was out of earshot, and she slouched down and tried to pull the collar of her sweater up.
“Hiding out?” Diana said, coming over with a tray and a rag to wipe down the table. “Your usual, hon?” she winked at Jon, putting down a coffee cup for him. “What can I get you, baby?” she asked Margaret. “Did you want to look at the menu? We haven't seen you back here in a long time.”
“No, that's okay. Coffee for me too, and pie?”
“Cream pie? I'm out of coconut, but there's some lemon going fast.”
“Sounds great,” Margaret smiled. “Thank you.” When Diana ran off to fill another order, she said, “If I ever think about moving back here, just remind me of this morning.”
“Sure thing, honey,” Jon laughed, patting her hand. Then he glanced over to the door. “Now what in the hell is she doing here?” he asked, at the same time as a clear, silvery voice rang out in lightly accented English, “Excuse me, can someone tell me the way to the Moyer household?”
Margaret knew that voice, and she startled out of her seat. “Carla?” There she was, Christopher's girlfriend Carla, as out of place as if she had landed from Mars. Carla wore some kind of shaggy fur vest, flared trousers, and boots that were a lot more stylish than practical.
The pretty blonde turned in her direction and lit up. “Margaret!” She stepped forward with both her hands held out. Feeling very self-conscious under the gaze of so many people, for every eye in the restaurant was on them, she went to meet Carla, took her hands, and kissed both cheeks.
“Christopher didn't tell me you were coming,” Margaret said.
Carla looked a little guilty. “I didn't …” She glanced around uncomfortably.
“You didn't tell him you were coming?” Margaret gasped, pulling Carla over to the third chair that Jon had pulled over to their little table.
“I couldn't,” Carla said in a subdued voice. “He only yells at me since he came back here. It was too much.” She glanced over at Jon.
Jon rose slightly in his chair, “Jon Campbell, Margaret's father.”
“Charmed,” Carla responded prettily. “I am Carla Gianetta LaGuardia.”
“How did you get in here? The whole place is shut down.”
“Ah!” Carla pulled out a badge proudly. It bore the name of a major disaster relief organization. “They were thrilled to have a volunteer to come in.” She pointed to a truck on the other side of the road from which soldiers were unloading supplies.
“Well, that's one way to get a welcome in this town,” Jon acknowledged. “You're going out to stay with the Moyers?” He glanced at Margaret.
Margaret was thinking along the same lines. She dimly remembered the Moyer house as being tiny, crowded, and perpetually noisy. She didn't think the sudden descent of Christopher's girlfriend would be handled well, either, especially not by his grandmother. But Carla wouldn't understand that. Her family had taken Christopher in immediately and without question. And Margaret did admire Carla's ingenuity in finding a way to be with Christopher. “Come and stay with us,” she said finally.
“What? I couldn't,” Carla protested.
Jon, who had been watching Margaret and following some of her thoughts, said, “No, please. Christopher's an old friend, and we've got plenty of room.”
“I can't possibly,” Carla said, distressed and not understanding what they were after in the least.
“Then just come back to freshen up while we call Christopher?” Margaret pleaded. She had a feeling that there would be a scene when that happened, and it would be horrible to have it take place here in town.
“Okay,” Carla said finally. “Thank you.” She smiled at Margaret. “You are a good friend to us.”
“Yeah.” Margaret looked up, and just then Diana came over with an understanding smile, coffee in a to-go cup and pie in a box. “I love you,” she said earnestly. Jon threw a few bills on the table, and they left, with conversation rising to an excited hum the moment they were outside the door.
“Let me get my bags from the truck,” Carla called. Jon followed over to help her, and they picked up a couple of relief packages too, with Jon signing for himself and a few of the close neighbors. “They threw a fundraiser in Toronto last week,” Carla said, climbing gamely into Jon's truck. “I spent the last two days getting these boxes packed, and then I had to get them out here. They flew me in on a government supply plane.”
“Is there any word on lifting quarantine?” Margaret asked.
Carla shook her head regretfully. “No—we don't know when. Our short-term relief efforts are focused on basic needs, but I know they are organizing a fuel fund to help the local population get through the winter. Our director met with the premier last week, but I hear so little myself.”
“More than we hear,” Jon said. “Just the same old stale gossip circulating over and over here. Folks trying to get out, folks going crazy.”
Margaret was trying to get her text to Christopher to send, which wasn't easy with reception going in and out. Finally, though, it went through, and she waited, mentally counting off seconds in her head. One, two, three, four, five, six … At six, her phone rang.
“What the hell kind of joke are you pulling, Margaret?” Christopher demanded loudly.
Margaret winced. “No joke, Christopher. Carla's here. We're both in the truck on the way back to our place,” she said, hoping he'd understand that Carla could hear him.
“Are you kidding me? What the hell does she think she's pulling?”
“Do you want to talk to her?” Margaret said desperately. “She's right here.”
“No. Just keep her at your place. I'll—fucking hell, I'll be there in an hour.” Christopher rang off abruptly.
Margaret looked at Carla unhappily. She knew the other woman had heard every word. “He doesn't handle surprises well,” she offered lamely.
“I know,” Carla said in a small voice.
“And I'm sure he's just worried for you.”
Jon nodded, trying to help. “Sure. I'd kick up hell too if my girl showed up in the middle of all this.”
“But he was so nasty with me when I went back to Venice,” Carla said. “He kept talking about dogs returning to their vomit, which made no sense—Papa doesn't even have dogs.”
Margaret hid a smile. “Carla, he was talking about himself, not you. He's mad that he has to be here. What he wanted—what he wants is to be in Ottawa with you. You have to know that.”
“But he isn't in Ottawa. He is here. And my place is with him,”
Carla said, very positively.
Margaret decided it was time to be clear about things. “How much has he told you about his family?”
“I know they are First Nations people, obviously, that they are poor, that they live on the reserve; I know how his grandmother keeps a garden—and see, I brought her fresh seeds for next spring, after Christopher puts things right.” Carla pulled some packets of vegetable seeds out of her purse. “I know grandmamas and mamas are jealous of their boys, but they cannot be monsters.”
“Carla, you're white,” Margaret said bluntly, “You symbolize a lot of things they don't like or trust. You're part of the world that's taken Christopher away from them, maybe forever.”
“So they are racist?” Carla frowned. “Do they hate you too?”
Margaret didn't like the word racist, but she didn't exactly know how to put it better. “They don't hate us, but I'm not living with their son in Ottawa.”
“It's hard for the older people,” Jon put in. “The kids marry out of the tribe and don't want to live on the reserve.” He glanced at Margaret. “I can't say I don't understand both sides of it.”
“It is the work of older generations to be conservative,” Carla said, but she was still frowning unhappily.
Margaret took Carla up to the bathroom when they got back to the house, and Carla splashed her face. “Thank you,” Carla said, then glanced at Margaret. “He talks about you more than his family. When I first met him, I was jealous of you—the girl next door, yes? But then I met you and saw how easy you were together, like brother and sister.”
“If he talks about me more than his family, it's not because he loves me so dearly, it's because he—well, Christopher was never, ever happy here in Alberta. You know that. So there's a lot he tries to forget.” And then, sensing the unspoken question in what Carla had said, “Christopher loves science, and he loves you. Neither of us was ever interested in the other that way.”
Carla nodded, and Margaret took her back downstairs. Margaret said, apologetically, “After the way Christopher talks about your coffee, I'm scared to offer you a cup.”