Tears in the Grass

by Lynda A. Archer

  In the long tunnel of light cast by the truck’s headlights, Elinor watched Edward, in black vest, red flannel shirt, talking to the RCMP officer, who was barely visible beneath his brown bison coat. Edward was waving his arms, gesturing at his truck. They walked beyond the cruiser and disappeared from her view. Between the snow and the dark, it was impossible to see what they were looking at.

  Elinor slumped back on the seat. The radio moved on from weather and road conditions to hockey scores. She rolled her window down. In seconds the sleeve of her coat and her lap were powdered white. Edward, swatting the snow from his vest and hair, was returning to the truck.

  “Cold out there,” he said, revving the engine.

  The policeman waved Edward forward, around the cruiser and the blue car in front of it. Elinor caught a glimpse of a woman huddled in the front seat of the cruiser. The windshield of her car was destroyed. On the road, a rack of antlers and a torso, brown and mangled, the head separated from the body.

  A dead deer. It was a sign, Elinor thought. The deer’s death instead of her own. She muttered thank you to the deer and the Creator.

  Edward turned toward her, asked if she’d said something. Elinor shook her head.

  “I’ve hit my fair share of those,” Edward said. “Don’t know what the poor thing was doing out on a night like this. You see them mostly in the fall when they’re in the midst of the rut.” He laughed. “Then they see nothing. They follow their noses after the girls.”

  Humans were capable of that kind of behaviour, Elinor thought. The not seeing, the blind pursuit of an idea, a passion, a dream. That’s what she was doing at the moment. She was following the scent of a hope, a wish. Only the scent she was trying to track was almost odourless, nothing compared to what a female deer gave off when she was ready for sex, ready to begin the next generation.

  Edward said he was hoping to get in a couple more hours of driving. The police officer said it was going to get worse. He switched the radio to a station coming out of Minnesota; they played country and western music, songs about riding horses, chasing cattle, hard-drinking women and men.

  “Seems odd to me for an Irishman to be listening to country and western,” Elinor said.

  Edward laughed. “I suppose. You expect me to be listening to sea shanties — stories about boats and fish, nets, high seas. Seems to me both kinds of music are about people living hard, living on the edge, lost loves, love of land and sea.

  “Where have you been living?” he asked. “Where were you born?”

  She was beginning to tire of the charade and deception she had created. Always a straight-talker, she didn’t like having to think and ponder each of his questions. Where was she born? She was glad it was dark and he couldn’t see the grin on her face. She was born, she said, many, many years ago on the prairie, when her people were still free to hunt where and when they wanted, to pitch their tipis when and where it suited them, to gather wild berries, pick herbs, dance for days on end.

  “You’re Indian, then. Picked up a few of your folks over the years. Most of them pretty quiet, but the odd one has been kind of scary. An ear missing. A scar across the chin. Sort of angry. My size is a big help. They get the message that trying to rob me probably won’t work. I figure the Irish and Indians have both been pretty messed up by the English. Nasty buggers. Don’t know that I’ve ever met one of them I liked.”

  She didn’t know much about Ireland except that there had been fighting there for a long time. And something about potatoes.

  Edward shifted to a lower gear. They rounded a curve and rolled down and down into a river valley, over a snow-covered road. There were no tracks from vehicles that had gone before. Edward sat up straighter, tightened his grip on the steering wheel, geared down further until they seemed to be crawling. Although the wipers moved swiftly, in the brief increment that they were at the bottom of the windshield, snow filled the fan track they had left.

  “Not good,” Edward said. “Slippery.” He said he was going to pull over when he got to the top of the hill. They were about two hours west of Winnipeg.

  Elinor felt the truck pull and sway as it crept up the hill, the sound of the engine now urgent and sonorous. She was aware of her body tensing, urging the beast upward. As they reached the crest of the hill, a car sped by on the other side. Edward, shaking his head, watched in his side mirror.

  “Silly bastard. Is he drunk? He’s going to wipe out at the bottom.”

  When they were about a quarter-mile beyond the crest of the hill, Edward angled the truck to the side of the road, then leaned back and sighed. “For all the driving I’ve done, you can never relax when it’s coming down like this. That couple of tons behind you has a life of its own. Are you all right?”

  “Mostly. But I have to pee.”

  “You can probably squat under the trailer, but it will be cold, no way around that. I’ll help you get out of the truck, then I’m going down the road a bit to see what happened with those folks.”

  Oh, if her daughter could see her now, Elinor thought, squatting behind the huge tires, the smell of rubber, grease, and gas filling her nostrils. Overhead was a load of beds, tables, chests of drawers, and mattresses, Edward had said. She shuffled her feet a little farther apart and her pee trickled out. Like everything else in her body it moved slowly. In the red glow of the truck’s parking lights and the flares Edward had set out, the snow, without wind, fell beautifully and steadily. As ridiculous as it might seem, she preferred this place to that hospital.

  Her pee was taking its time leaving her body. She guessed it hated to leave such a warm place. Trying to shift her body so she could get out from under the trailer, pull up her pants, she lost her balance and fell onto her arm. It hurt like hell; she hoped she hadn’t broken anything. She tried to move but it was too painful. She’d just rest for a moment. She was so tired. So tired. She curled her legs beneath her, pulled her coat closer, drew her arm over her head.

  She loved the sound of the quiet, even though, her hearing being what it was, the sound of quiet had grown softer. Now it was more of a buzzing in her ears. When her hearing was sharper, she’d listen to the crisp whisper of falling snow, each flake announcing its arrival with a tiny crackle or pop, like a fizzy drink but not as vigorous.

  Her mind filled with an image of Bright Eyes. She’d come; she was there with her. The pudgy dark skin of her cheeks, arms, and thighs. Black hair soft as a duck’s breast. Slight fingers that clamped onto her own like they would never let go. Wet, dark eyes peering into Elinor’s, trying to make sense of her new world. So many imaginings Elinor had had over the years. Bright Eyes taking her first steps. Bright Eyes at four, running and chattering. Bright Eyes at ten, chasing horses, carrying water, learning how to lay beads on deerskin. Bright Eyes as a young woman, tall and strong, coupled with a handsome and intelligent man.

  And the snow fell. And fell.

  Puffy mounds of silver white. Slender white fingers reaching around the tires, beneath the truck, curving around the perimeter of Elinor’s legs, back, and arms. It was so nice to be lying down; she’d sleep for a few minutes. She didn’t feel cold. Her thoughts of Bright Eyes kept her warm. She could see her, bathed in a silvery light. So beautiful. Pink-and-green silver, like the scales on a perch’s back. Smooth and white and firm like the fish’s belly. She needn’t leave this place. It was so pleasant.

  She blinked hard into the light shining in her eyes. A man’s voice calling “Mary, Mary.” Why didn’t this Mary person answer so she, Elinor, could get back to sleep? She tried to roll away; the pain shot up her arm.

  “Go away,” she gasped. “Leave me be.”

  “Trust me, I would,” he said, “but you’re under my truck and there’s a blizzard raging. Come on, then.” He crouched down, brushed the snow from her, extended a hand.

  Elinor grabbed hold, and with Edward’s steadying hand, managed to crank her body into a sitting position. Her heart was racing and the pain in her arm was so intense she t
hought she might pass out. She cursed the thing. What was she doing here? What had she been thinking? She could hear Louise’s voice asking all those questions and more. Somehow, between Edward’s tugging and her own feeble movements, she got out from under the truck.

  Her teeth were rattling and she couldn’t stop them.

  There was snow at the roadside — easily two feet of it. All around them snow and more snow. She thought she was going to cry and she didn’t want to do that. Maybe she needed to tell Edward the truth and take the first bus back to Regina.

  She was grateful for the dry warmth of the truck’s cab, the fan blasting, and the cup of sweet, strong tea from Edward’s Thermos. He made his tea the way she liked it. Her stomach was growling, which Edward must have heard because he broke off half his sandwich and handed it to her. Usually, she hated cheese. And she wasn’t especially fond of dill pickle, either. Edward said they were stuck there until morning. He screwed the top back onto his Thermos and tucked it away in his lunchbox. He lit two candles and set them on the dashboard.

  “They’ll give a little heat,” he said.

  He laid a blanket on her lap, pulled another around himself, and yawned, said he needed only a few hours’ sleep and as soon as there was some light he’d get moving.

  Elinor thanked Edward for the sandwich, the tea, and the blanket.

  Edward, eyes closed, didn’t respond.

  Elinor unfolded her blanket, tucked it beneath her thighs, pulled it over her chest and around her neck. She hoped Edward woke up before they were both frozen.

  24

  Louise watched the falling whiteness from the living room window: so innocent, so unassuming, so beautiful. Like a baby. It had been snowing for hours and hours. Their driveway had disappeared, as had the sidewalks and sections of the road. Only the shape of their car was discernible now. No colour, no door handles, headlights, or windows. Smaller shrubs and bushes had been transformed into bulges and lumps. Branches on the pine tree and blue spruce hung heavy and low from the accumulation of snow. Schools were closed. Court would probably be cancelled, although that depended on which judge was sitting; Judge Anderson lived within walking distance of the courthouse and he never cancelled.

  Snow flowed beneath the illumination of the street lights like a waterfall.

  Beautiful as the snow was, it was a deadly beauty.

  Cars ended up in snowbanks, branches broke from trees, roofs collapsed. And her mother … if she fell in it …

  Alice had managed to get to Elinor’s house before the worst set in. She said there was nothing to suggest Elinor had gone there and no clues to what had caused her to take off the way she had.

  Louise had called the police. They said they would do nothing until her mother had been missing twenty-four hours. It took all of Louise’s restraint not to shout at them that her mother might be dead by then, and if that was the case she’d be after the force for shirking its duties. Didn’t they make exceptions for ninety-year-olds? With the blizzard, friends and family couldn’t drive the countryside and highways, or get out to the reserve to see if she’d gone there. All they could do was wait, and hope.

  Lillian had heard nothing from Elinor. She reminded Louise how stubborn her mother could be. Louise didn’t need to be reminded.

  Louise rubbed her hands together to generate some heat, then placed them over her nose. The house was cold. She went to the hallway, pushed up the thermostat another notch, but the furnace did not come on. She wiggled the dial up and down but there was still no response. She cursed the thing; they’d been talking about replacing it. When she went back to the living room, she saw that the street lights had gone out.

  In her study, when she flicked the light switch, darkness prevailed. A shard of light spilled from the window when she pulled up the blind. The top of her desk was strewn with photographs John had left for her. Photographs of Holstein cows and steers, calves with gangly legs, glimmering icicles clinging to eavestroughs, a spider in the middle of its web, golden fields dotted with bales of hay. He wanted her opinion on which three he should submit to the school’s photography contest. She gathered the photographs into a pile, examined each in turn, organized them into two piles: the best and the not so good. She was drawn to a photograph of a young boy, six or seven. He wore black pants, a long-sleeved white shirt, suspenders; his hair was cut close, as if someone had placed a bowl on his head and cut around it. A man stood a few feet behind the boy; his attire was the same. They were Hutterites, immigrants from Moravia and the Ukraine. They kept to themselves, bound by their religious beliefs. In Saskatchewan they were flourishing, buying up farmland, which didn’t sit well with many local farmers. She was surprised John had gotten this photograph. She didn’t think Hutterites permitted photographs. Maybe they needed it for medical or legal reasons. Even though she was drawn to the photograph — the sense of the boy’s pride, his future hovering behind him — she put it in the “not so good” pile. She doubted that being the winner in a photo contest was something Hutterites valued. Although she’d be in the minority, she did admire their courage and tenacity, their ability to make a go of things against poor odds. She’d always admired that in people. When she was representing someone through legal aid, if he freely acknowledged to her the error of his ways and indicated a plan, a dream for his future, she’d fight for him. She fought for all her clients, but for those who weren’t slackers, she’d fight that extra bit.

  She heard a bang from upstairs, then the swoosh of the toilet flushing. The furnace came on, ran for a half a minute then went off. She hoped her mother was warm. If something happened to her … if she was found in the springtime frozen to death under a pile of snow a half-mile from the city…. She’d go after the police, the hospital, the city, for negligence.

  She grabbed hold of the banister, headed up the stairs. Her knees ached. The stairs creaked. She’d call the police again in the morning. Her mother wouldn’t be a priority. They’d be swamped with car accidents, rescuing people from snowbanks, getting pregnant women to hospital. During the last big snowstorm, a woman had delivered her baby in the backseat of her car, then huddled against the family dog to keep warm until the police found her. Her husband, foolish man, had gone out into the blizzard in search of help but couldn’t find his way back.

  She pressed her body onto John’s back, bent her knees into the notch of his knees. When she rubbed the bottoms of her feet on top of John’s, he moaned. In a gravelly voice he said her feet were like blocks of ice and asked what she’d been doing. She laughed, said she’d been out shovelling snow in her slippers. He rolled over, drew her close to him, said he’d go shopping with her so she could buy some new boots. Within minutes he was asleep again; she felt his arms relaxing away from her. The scent of Irish Spring soap, John’s favourite, drifted off his body. She’d bought him some citrus-scented soap, but he’d have nothing to do with it.

  They’d celebrated their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary a couple of years earlier. It was a small affair, family and a few close friends. John’s oldest friend, Gregory, insisted on telling the story about the time the three of them had gone hunting for rabbit in the Moose Jaw hills. He said it was the second time he’d met Louise. He laughed and said he’d had his doubts about how it would work between Louise and John. John wanted to write poetry; Louise wanted to rewrite the Canadian constitution. He didn’t think Louise would tolerate a poetic rendition of the constitution, and with the little he knew of poetry, he doubted that John would be satisfied with a bunch of wherefores, hereins, and inasmuches in his sonnets. Louise was the only one who bagged a rabbit that day. It made Gregory think that at least the two of them wouldn’t go hungry; you couldn’t eat words.

  She rolled away from John. The furnace came on. As the warm air drifted over her, her chest filled up; she thought she might cry. She asked the Creator to keep her mother safe, at least for a few more days, until Louise could bring her home. She hesitated to ask more of the Creator, but she did. She asked for his h
elp finding Bright Eyes.

  25

  The shaking and rumbling of the truck woke Elinor. She pulled the blanket tighter around herself. A blast of cold air rushed at her as the door opened and Edward climbed back into the truck. He glanced at her, but beyond that it was as if she wasn’t there.

  Not one for conversation first thing after waking, she didn’t mind. Edward propped a mirror on the dash. He smoothed gobs of shaving cream over the areas of his cheeks that were beardless. He stretched the skin taut, drew the blade slowly downward. Three times on the left; three times on the right. The blade scratched over the tough skin and the dark stubble disappeared. He patted his neck and cheeks with an aftershave that smelled like rotten oranges to Elinor. She opened her window a crack; she would have preferred to open the door and wave her arms about to dispel the smell, but she was a guest in this vehicle.

  Edward continued to examine his face in the mirror. He grabbed a long hair from his right eyebrow, yanked it out with a quick jerk, and flicked the hair away. He checked the left eyebrow but found nothing in need of pruning. She hadn’t spent that much time in front of a mirror in her entire life.

  Edward combed his hair, adjusted the collar on his flannel shirt, then returned everything to his kit bag.

  “Would you like to have a bit of a wash-up?” Edward said. “I can heat a little water.”

  Elinor’s heart fluttered; such kindness. “Is it that bad?” she asked.

  Edward looked at her, moved his head side to side. “Could be worse; could be better. I generally try to keep a bit of civility when I’m on the road.” He reached into the storage cabinet behind his head, pulled out a clean towel, a bar of soap, and a small stove. He said he’d be a minute heating the water outside.