by Gail Bowen
“Not so fast,” I said. “Gracie, is this whole Día de los Muertos thing still getting to you?”
Gracie made a face of mock dismay. “Am I that transparent?”
“Only because you shared your concern with me.”
Gracie placed her backpack on the table and pulled up a chair. “Yes, it’s still getting to me – it’s getting to me big-time. I’m trying to deal with my feelings rationally. Taylor’s right. The art that’s grown out of Día de los Muertos is brilliant, and it’s inspired us to find a way for our families to heal.” Gracie reached into her backpack and withdrew Bony Lady. “But I don’t know. Take my friend here,” she said. “All those followers of Santa Muerte that Taylor mentioned – they believe she has the power to protect them when they’re alive and ease their passage into the afterlife. For us she’s just a curiosity.” Gracie touched the doll’s face gently with one finger. “Maybe that’s the real problem I’m having with all this, Jo. I wish I truly did believe that invoking my mother would help my father move on from her. I wish I could believe there was a saint who could protect the dead – and one who could keep the living safe from bad medicine.”
“You’re still thinking of that old man at Standing Buffalo,” I said.
“Esau Pilger,” Gracie said. “I can’t get him out of my mind.”
“Neither can I,” I said.
“But you’re not afraid of him,” Gracie said.
“No, I’m not afraid. Esau Pilger has every right to hate what people like me did to his people, but spitting was just a way of showing his contempt. It wasn’t bad medicine. Don’t give him power over your life, Gracie. Your grandmother was at the centre of a tragedy involving two men who loved her. Unfortunately, that happens. Your mother had her own demons, but Esau Pilger didn’t put them there.”
“Her childhood did,” Gracie said. “At least that’s what Rose believes. Rose says all of our people have sorrows that just keep repeating themselves.”
“Because of bad medicine?” I said. “Or because of wounds that haven’t been given an airing so they can heal? Gracie, that day at the lake, the arguments you and Isobel and Taylor raised for coming together to understand and accept the past made a lot of sense. But see the gathering for what it is – a therapy that, as you pointed out to Izzie, may or may not work.”
“In psych class, we learned that to test a hypothesis, you have to identify the effect of the independent variables,” Gracie said.
“Those that affect the way the other variables respond in a controlled environment,” I said.
Gracie chuckled. “I see I’m not the only one to have taken Psych 100,” she said. “Well, in this case, my mother’s life is the dependent variable and the independent variable is bad medicine. If I can keep my courage up, tonight after Betty’s birthday dinner I’m going to ride my bike over to Old Man Pilger’s and ask him whether there was a curse on my grandmother and my mother.” She held her hand out. “Look at that,” she said. “Even the thought makes me tremble.”
“Would you feel braver if I was standing beside you?”
“Are you serious?”
“Very. Taylor’s got a pizza and movie night with her art class. Do you think Rose would mind having an extra guest at her party for Betty?”
“She’d love it.”
“Okay then. But I’d like to bring Betty a gift,” I said. “Any suggestions?”
“Elizabeth Taylor’s White Diamonds. Betty worshipped Elizabeth Taylor, and Shoppers sells her perfume, so we can stop there for you to pick up a bottle on our way out of town.”
—
Gracie had been uncharacteristically withdrawn as we drove out of the city, and I wondered if she was revisiting her decision to confront Esau Pilger. But, in fact, a choice about her future was on Gracie’s mind.
“Penny for your thoughts,” I said.
“Canada doesn’t have pennies any more, so you’re going to have raise the ante,” Gracie said, and her tone was playful.
“Okay, a nickel for your thoughts,” I said. “But I want the full story.”
“I got the first recruiting letter of the season today,” Gracie said. “It was from my dream college: Notre Dame.”
Touted as the best shooting guard in a decade on the university’s women’s basketball team, Gracie had been scouted the year before by American colleges with heavily funded athletic programs. Now it seemed the pursuit had begun again. “Notre Dame’s a terrific university,” I said. “They have a solid academic reputation, and from what Zack tells me, they’re conscientious about preparing student-athletes for life after graduation.”
“It was tough turning them down last year,” Gracie said. “It’s going to be even tougher doing it this year.”
“Blake wouldn’t want you to turn them down again,” I said. “You know that.”
“I do,” Gracie said, “But every time I think about Dad rattling around in that great big house alone, I know I don’t have an option.”
“Gracie, you don’t have to make a decision today. Things change. The gathering on Halloween might be just the push your dad needs.”
“Dream on,” Gracie said. And for the next half-hour, we did just that – we talked about all the possibilities that lay ahead for both Blake and Gracie. The topic was absorbing, and we were both surprised at how quickly we arrived at the turnoff to the reserve. Standing Buffalo Dakota First Nation was on a physically stunning setting overlooking the Qu’Appelle Valley. Once, a mighty and seemingly never-ending river of buffalo had been driven over the reserve’s hills. Over time, white hunters decimated the herds; the river of buffalo slowed to a trickle and then dried up completely.
When the Falconer family was at the lake, Rose Lavallee lived in the house next door to her sister Betty’s. The sisters were close, but they were as different as two sisters could be. Everything about Rose announced that she was a no-nonsense woman: her body was small and wiry; her skin care regime was simple: sunscreen during the day and Vaseline at night; her grey hair was styled in a tight perm; and her wardrobe was strictly wash-and-wear. At seventy, Betty was still a looker, with a plump, curvy body and hair as black as a raven’s wing. She prided herself on the fact that no one, including her three late husbands, had ever seen her without full, perfectly applied makeup.
That night both sisters greeted us at the front door. Gracie and I brought in the gifts and Betty oohed and aahed as she unwrapped them while Rose got supper on the table. Gracie had informed me that Betty preferred the White Diamonds eau de toilette to the perfume, and the information was spot on. As soon as Betty saw her gift, she opened the box and spritzed herself and Gracie and me. “Rose will give me Hail Columbia for doing this,” Betty said happily, “but it’s my birthday and I want everybody to feel like a movie star.”
Zack called just after Rose had stopped giving Betty Hail Columbia and had brought in the bannock. My husband was in a good mood. “Hey, I have primo accommodations – corner room overlooking Lake Ontario. Great big bed, but I’m looking at your spot and it’s empty. God, I wish you were here.”
“I wish I was there too, but I guarantee whatever you have for dinner won’t be as good as what I’m about to have. Gracie and I are out at Standing Buffalo celebrating Betty’s birthday. Rose is serving moose chili.”
“You win,” Zack said. “Tell Betty happy birthday from the mayor.”
“I will,” I said. “But we’re just about to eat, so I’ll call you later.
As she placed my bowl in front of me, Rose gave me a conspiratorial wink. “I know you like moose chili, Joanne,” she said, “so I gave you a double portion.”
I was still comfortably full from my late lunch of chili, but I’m a gamer, so I happily dug in. Supper was a lot of fun. Rose put on a CD of mellow love songs by Betty’s favourite artist, Lionel Richie, the chili and bannock were excellent, and, safe in the warmth of her second family, Gracie relaxed. After Betty had blown out the candles and we’d had our cake and tea, Gracie caugh
t my eye. “I’m going to take a spin on my bike and burn off a few calories. Want to join me, Jo?”
I stood. “Sure. Rose, promise me you’ll leave the dishes. We’ll get them when we come back.”
“I never make a promise I won’t keep,” Rose said. “But you’re our guest, and lately Gracie’s been looking like she could use a little fun. You can take my bike, Joanne. It’s in the shed with Gracie’s. Don’t forget your helmets.”
The mountain bike the Falconers had given Rose the previous Christmas was the duplicate of Gracie’s – a Trek – and as soon as I jumped on, I knew it would be a joy to ride. “Just follow me,” Gracie said, and I did.
Rose believed early dinners gave a person the chance to digest her food properly before bed, so it was a quarter past five when Gracie and I started out. The sun was just beginning to set, and we were enjoying the ride when Gracie stopped and pointed to a house at the top of a side road that wound up the hill.
“That’s his place,” she said. She turned to face me. “Jo, this might not be such a good idea. Esau’s old, and people say he suffers from dementia. He really is obsessed with what happened to my grandmother, and that was close to fifty years ago. I’m not sure how he’ll handle confrontation.”
“We’re not here to confront him,” I said. “We’re here so that you and I can clear the air with Esau Pilger and assure ourselves that there’s nothing to fear from him. Let’s get it over with.”
We pushed our bikes the rest of the way up the road. When I turned to take in the view, I was surprised at how visible our property at Lawyers’ Bay was from the top of the hill. I always referred to our place at the lake as a cottage, but the truth was that, like the other four dwellings on the horseshoe of land, ours was a large and beautifully designed summer home. As the sun descended towards the horizon, the houses on Lawyers’ Bay were bathed in golden light. Years ago, landscapers had planted Amur maples around the property, and their foliage glowed in the vibrant colours of autumn: orange, scarlet, and burgundy. For me, the beauty of the scene was breathtaking, but for Esau Pilger it could have served as a constant reminder of what had been lost.
Rose and Betty were house-proud, and their bungalows were neat as two pins. Esau Pilger’s was a shambles. The area around the house was a graveyard of rusting farm machinery, old tires, husks of abandoned cars, and – incongruously – a bathtub, a sink, and a toilet. Even in the dying light of dusk I could see that the roof was missing shingles and that the wood on the front steps sagged.
A quartet of barking dogs approached. My kids mocked me for always carrying dog treats in my jacket pocket, but that night the treats came in handy. I took out the baggie and scattered some desiccated liver on the ground. The dogs wolfed it, and when I held out more on the palm of my hand, they approached, took the liver, and sniffed at me. I apparently passed muster. They calmed enough to let me pat them.
Gracie had been watching. “Jo, the dog whisperer,” she said, and she knocked on the door. When there was no answer, she knocked again and waited. “He’s not here,” she said, and I could hear the relief in her voice. Just then, the old man opened the door. The stench of rot, feces, and cat pee from the air inside hit us like a wall.
The old man was shrunken with age, and Gracie dwarfed him, but he had a powerful voice. “Get away, white girl,” he said.
“I’m not a white girl,” Gracie said. “I’m Gloria Ryder’s granddaughter.”
Esau scowled. “I know who you are,” he said. “If Gloria had married me, she wouldn’t have had no white granddaughter. She threw away her life, and that daughter of hers – your mother – married white and threw away her life. They deserved what they got and you’ll deserve what you get.” He stepped back inside, slamming the door behind him.
Gracie pivoted to face me. Her eyes were wide, and her voice was urgent. “Not one of my better ideas,” Gracie said. “Let’s get out of here.”
We rushed to our bikes and started down the hill. Just as we began to pick up speed, Gracie hit a rock that, in the growing darkness, seemed to come out of nowhere. The impact threw her from her bicycle.
“Are you okay?” I said.
Gracie started to push herself into standing position, and then she groaned. “Better call 911,” she said. “I’ve done something to my knee.”
I pulled out my phone. “That won’t work here,” Gracie said. “You’ll need to use a landline.”
I looked around the dark valley. The closest house was at least a fifteen-minute ride away. “I’m going to go back to Esau Pilger’s and ask to use his phone,” I said.
“Don’t,” Gracie said. “He might hurt you.”
“He’s frail. I bet he weighs less than a hundred pounds,” I said. “I’ll take my chances.”
The words were brave, but as I walked up the hill my pulse was racing. I knocked, and when there was no answer, I opened the door. The stench was stomach-turning. Esau was sitting on a kitchen chair under a naked light bulb with a tray-sized board balanced on his knees. On the board was a whetstone, and Esau was rhythmically stroking the blade of what appeared to be a hunting knife against the stone. The play of light and shadows on the old man’s face made him seem otherworldly; so did the cats that prowled around him, mewing.
“There’s been an accident,” I said. “Where’s your phone?”
Esau turned the knife over and began stroking the other side of the blade against the stone. He was ignoring me. As the rasp of the blade continued, my nerves tightened. “Gloria Ryder’s granddaughter is lying by the side of the path to your house and she’s hurt,” I said. “I need your phone.”
He kept his eyes on me, but he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the wall behind him. Getting to the phone was tough – the floor was covered in newspapers spongy with animal urine and feces, and I had to pass closely by Esau. When I dialled 911, I realized I had no idea where I was. I turned to the old man.
“They need directions,” I said.
“Tell them Esau Pilger’s place – they’ll know,” he said. I gave the operator our location and broke the connection.
As I made my way to the front door, I looked around. Two of the walls were covered in old newspaper clippings and photographs yellowed and curling with age. Hanging next to the door were two framed photographs: one was of a striking young woman. At first I thought it was Lily Falconer, but of course it was her mother – Gloria Ryder, the woman Esau Pilger had loved. The second was the photo of The Winners’ Circle up to their knees in the lake their first summer at Lawyers’ Bay. I went cold. It was a personal photo, and how it had come into Esau’s hands was a mystery, but Gracie was in pain and waiting. “Thanks for letting me use your phone,” I said.
The hunting knife was still in his hands. “What’s happened to the girl?”
“Her bike hit a rock and she fell,” I said. “She’ll be fine. It’s just her knee,” I said. As soon as the words left my mouth, I realized how foolish they were. Gracie’s life was basketball and for that she needed both legs.
By way of answer, he put down the knife and placed his hands on the table on either side of it. I opened the door and left. Outside, I zipped my jacket and made my way as quickly as possible back to Gracie. “How are you doing?”
“I’ve been better,” she said.
“The ambulance is on its way,” I said.
I bent to look at her leg by the light of my phone. “Some scrapes. Not much blood, but your knee is swelling,” I said.
“I’m pretty sure I’ve torn my ACL,” Gracie said. “I heard a pop when I went down.”
“That doesn’t sound good,” I said.
“It’s not,” she said. “But no use complaining. Coach always says, ‘The game honours toughness.’ ”
By the time the ambulance arrived, Gracie and I had agreed on what to do next. She wasn’t in pain, but she’d moved her knee gingerly a few times, and she was convinced that her diagnosis of a torn anterior cruciate ligament was correct. Gracie had be
en playing basketball seriously since she was ten, so she was knowledgeable about the protocol for injuries related to her sport. At the hospital, the orthopedic surgeon on call would examine her. There would be tests, including an MRI, and the surgeon would decide on treatment.
Gracie was in complete control. She said that there was nothing I could do at the hospital, so once she was safely stowed in the ambulance, I should ride Rose’s bike back to her place and tell her what had happened. Blake was in Calgary, and she asked me to call from Rose’s to tell him the situation, and then she wanted Rose and me to drive back to the city in Gracie’s car. Rose would stay at the hospital with Gracie and I’d go home, fill Taylor in on the night, and get some sleep. Neither of us mentioned Old Man Pilger’s curse or the rock that had appeared seemingly out of nowhere in front of Gracie’s bike when we sped down the hill.
—
I followed Gracie’s instructions to a T. When I got home, I told Taylor what had happened and reassured her that Gracie would be fine. Then I took a long shower in an effort to scrub away every trace of Esau Pilger and the fetid air of his house. But no amount of scalding water could banish the memory of that shadowy room with its walls filled with yellowing newspaper clippings and the old man at the table, sharpening his knife. I brushed my teeth, put on my pyjamas, and started for bed, but my mind was racing. “Monkey mind,” Buddha had called it, filled with thoughts that jump around, screeching, chattering, carrying on endlessly, and clambering for attention. I stood at the French doors that opened from our bedroom onto the creek, hoping the chill night air and ribbon of light the moon drew on the water would calm me. By the time I slipped into bed I thought I was ready to sleep, but one monkey had not been tamed – the strongest one. Fear.
When I closed my eyes, two images appeared so real and dimensional I could have reached out and touched them. The first was the framed portrait of Gloria Ryder, the woman Esau loved and had lost. The second was the photograph of Zack and his friends, who, if Gracie was correct, had become the focal point of Esau’s hatred. I had been skeptical of the idea that the old man might have cursed Gracie with bad medicine, but remembering how, just minutes after Esau told Gracie she would get what she deserved, she suffered a serious accident, I was no longer certain of anything.