He drove the Rolls to the church. So deliberately. So sweetly, hardly a sound from the engine. So early he sat alone at his desk, feet up, eyes closed, at peace.
3.
The new wheelchair arrived, more sensitive controls. Milton had asked Ti-Jean to put it together. He agreed. But remained wary. The finished conveyance, dull aluminum and black steel gloss, glowered tough and technological. He let Milton attach the charge for its double batteries. Once juiced, it could be dangerous. The charging took fourteen hours and would provide four hours of driving time. The salespeople had said to boost the batteries every night. And get an extra set.
Theresa had been using the old chair again, her good and steady friend she called it. But despite therapy and acupuncture treatments—stiletto needles lancing her flesh, she’d muttered—her better hand found the controls stiff. Damned weakness this, turning an ally into an adversary.
At four Theresa would try the new chair. They had lunch together, Feasie and Ti-Jean, Milton feeding Theresa as he had after the first stroke, Sarah and Carney, a couple clear to all. After lunch Theresa slept. Carney and Sarah sat in the garden, talking. Theresa woke up giving Milton orders; Carney’s sympathy went to Milton. Milton argued with her, gave in to her. Twice her face contorted as if something weird were happening, something she couldn’t deal with.
They loaded the new chair into the back of the van, Theresa strapped onto the front seat. Feasie and Ti-Jean followed in their pickup, Sarah and Carney in the Jag.
In a near-empty University of Vermont parking lot Theresa Magnussen tested her chair. Its acceleration and steering were more delicate. She over-compensated, she lurched and jerked. Still, after half an hour, she’d gained some mastery.
Ti-Jean said, “I don’t like it.”
Feasie nodded. “A rolling stone can kill two birds in a bush.”
“Let’s hope that’s all it kills.”
The chair’s controls were set on a flat bar in front, not on the arm as before. The wheels wrenched left, and left again. Theresa, taking charge. She pulled in beside them. Feasie lay her hand on Theresa’s shoulder. “Doing great.” Milton leaned and kissed her cheek.
Theresa shook her head—twitched it to the right, the only direction her neck went—and powered herself away. She rolled fast, quicker than a woman could run. She slowed, stopped.
Nice chair, Theresa.
Glad you’ve come by. Hello.
You miss me?
You damn well know it. I keep looking for you.
Lola kissed her on the forehead. Let’s see you drive that thing.
It’s tricky.
I’ll help.
A grin. Okay, let’s go. She turned toward Milton, Sarah, and the rest. Lola sat on her lap.
They watched the chair execute a smooth rotation. It began threading its way between the white lines, up one set and down another, gentle arcs. For Milton it was lovely to see, a bulky water bird taking flight, all ease and grace. For Carney she was a cocoon opening, gold-brown wings stretching, drying, the butterfly aloft on the breeze. He grinned. Theresa’s disguise?
A final arc and Theresa turned toward them, fast, still faster, then slower, slow, and she drew level. Her lip edge ticked up three-four times.
Milton put his hand on her neck, his eyelids beat quickly. Ti-Jean’s head shook, he caught himself, shrugged. Carney wondered, maybe there are good demons too?
Milton and Carney walked behind Theresa, Sarah and Feasie on each side. Before they reached the Jag, Milton held Carney back. “Something I’d like your advice on. You have time?”
“Sure. I’m going to drop Sarah off at the lab. She’s on evening shift. I’ll come by.”
•
Lola’s okay. Except now she’s gone again. Why can’t I see her like I see the people down there, whenever I want? People don’t see her either. No, I don’t like the implications of that thought.
On the positive side, the Gods haven’t returned.
•
At the Magnussen house Leonora let him in. “Hi,” he said.
“Oh. Hello.”
“Still want to set up a lunch?”
She looked at him, a squint, as if not understanding.
“To talk about whatever it was you wanted to talk about?”
She raised one eyebrow, Sarah-fashion. “Too late for that, isn’t it.”
“For what?”
“Forget it. Look, my next couple of weeks are extremely busy. I’ll call you.”
“Okay, good.” Irritated with him? Jealous of Sarah? He sniffed a little laugh.
Milton found him, led him to the living room. “First I want to thank you. About Sarah.”
“What about Sarah?”
“She’s here so much more now.”
“She’s worried about her mother.”
Milton grasped Carney’s elbow. “Then you’ve changed her.”
“She’s been worried. All along.”
“Well you’ve helped her show it.”
Innocent action interpreted as good deeds. “Hardly me.”
“Oh yes.” He squeezed Carney’s forearm. “Thanks.” Then, embarrassed, he reached for a letter. “Look at this.”
From John Cochan to John Milton Magnussen and Theresa Bonneherbe Magnussen, on letterhead proclaiming, in silvery Latin, that Intraterra represented Quality and Quantity, Quantity in Quality. A new offer to buy the Bonneherbe Magnussen land for $5.9 million. Carney said, “He makes an offer sound like a threat. But he can’t do anything.”
“Except destroy the land, make it worthless.”
“Or more valuable.”
“But in the wrong way.” Milton folded the letter. “Theresa wants to go there.”
“Don’t do it.”
“Leasie thinks it might be good for her. Theresa’s got a big fat bumblebee in her bonnet about going. And now Leasie’s written a letter over Theresa’s name, asking to come out.”
“A really rotten idea, Milton.” Best way for Cochan to send her over the edge.
“Letter got sent before I knew about it.”
“Theresa actually signed?”
“Leasie did, for her. What can we do?”
“When was this sent?”
“Couple of days ago.”
Carney shrugged. “If Cochan says yes you can always refuse.”
“Carney, do you— Would you talk to him again? Cochan?”
He patted Milton’s arm. “Let me go say so long to Theresa.”
Milton puffed a hard laugh. “Huh. She’s becoming impossible. Said she wants to roar down the sidewalk. Like a kid on a dirt bike. She worries me.”
“I’ll go for a walk with her, keep her on a short leash.”
He squeezed a one-sided smile. “I don’t want her going batty.”
Carney went up to the bedroom. Carney still needed to listen hard but her slur had decreased and her mouth muscles were tighter. “Look at this.” She showed Carney a long stick.
“What is it?”
“Milton bought it. My foilpole.”
Carney took it. About six feet long, lightweight. One end could grab with the heavy-duty pincers, the other with stiletto prongs. A spring-loaded stiletto point, thin blade, as for skewering. “Dangerous-looking item, that.”
Theresa grinned. “Case I’m mugged.” She reached up with it, it was telescopic too, and the pincers plucked a book off a shelf. She retracted and released the book onto his lap.
“Amazing.”
“I saw a lot of films this week. And I’m reading again.”
“Good. What?”
“Couple of biographies about Lola. You know, the actress. Remarkable life.”
Carney shook his head. “Theresa Magnussen, the eminent moralist, concerned with a glamorous sex-kitten?”
She broke into a guffaw, she rumbled, choked. “A—a—” she wheezed, “a silver tiger!”
“What?”
She shook with laughter. Tears came to her eyes. Slowly she calmed.
; “And what was so funny?”
With her right hand she waved Carney off. “No way can you understand.”
Was Milton right, maybe Theresa’s mind really was losing a couple of hinges? “Want to go for a roll, Theresa?”
“I’m on a roll!” And more chuckles. “Let’s go into town.”
So he loaded the chair once again into the van and drove her to Main Street. They rolled, along the sidewalks of Burlington. Carney started a fishing story but Theresa wasn’t interested, she glanced about, accelerated, ripped ahead. Twenty feet away she stopped, stared across a lawn, pointed the stick at a front window. She held her hand in front of her mouth to hide a laugh.
Carney caught up. In silence they returned to Main Street. Theresa paused at a storefront, a dress boutique. She gazed at the display, suddenly raised her foilpole high and sliced the air. She pointed to a white-sheath evening gown, talking but not to Carney, the words gibberish.
“Theresa, we better head back.”
“I’ll get back alone. Leave me. I’m in good hands.” She laughed again.
“Impossible, Theresa.”
She glared at Carney. “Bhllarghgh—” She waved her foilpole and turned the chair, breathing a chatter-like nonsense.
Again Carney didn’t understand, but he’d never seen her happier. He hoped there wouldn’t come yet another fall. He grew stern. “We’re going back now, Theresa.”
“This time,” she assented.
4.
Sarah and Carney took off in a Carney and Co. single-engine float plane from the southern end of Lake Champlain. They flew north, crossing the border, the St. Lawrence River, and over the Laurentians to waters of pike and walleye, doré they’re called up there. They’d be away nearly five days, till Tuesday morning.
The plane followed the James Bay power lines, a scraped yellow scar fifty meters wide. Millions of kilowatts streamed down the transmission corridor.
Over the roar of the engine Sarah shouted, “They use herbicides to keep the ground under the lines plant-free! Contaminated half the wells in the bedrock two hundred miles to the dams!”
“Terrific!” Ever well-versed, was Sarah. Well, good for her.
As for Carney, right then he beseeched the demons in the plane’s single engine to keep them aloft. Though he’d logged thousands of hours flying time and was a first-class pilot, small planes still scared him.
They came down on one of the thirty-plus arms of the Gouin Reservoir, a dammed and flooded river system. The banks had been Indian land, still were Sarah told him, but a lot of first nations acreage now sat under water. Politics aside, here lay a magnificent wilderness, heavily wooded in all directions, the Canada of Carney’s childhood imagination. The sense of calm was pervasive. They located the cottage they’d rented, from the shoreline no other units visible. They also had a fifteen-foot aluminum boat with a 9.9-horse engine, good power given the potential for two- to three-foot swells.
The lake if not teeming with fish was at least rich enough to satisfy a greedy angler: sixteen walleye the first day, and five pike, the largest nine pounds, a majestic fighter. Carney used his barbless hooks and kept a couple of doré to eat. This far north and this late in the season only a few blackflies remained. Carney didn’t kill many, Sarah none.
How about bringing back a water sample, Carney? But why know the worst when the beauty here was so wide-reaching.
He offered her a bite of doré fried in garlic butter. She stayed with her vegetables. Carney put a piece on her plate. She looked at it. She seemed tempted. A weak moment. He would try: “Don’t be atoning for setting anthills on fire. Or your husband’s death.”
She stared at the fish. “Don’t spoil it, Carney.”
“Then tell me.”
“It was such an—unnecessary accident.”
“How do you know?”
Her eyes never left the fish. “So much of death is. Premature.”
“I think you’re doing penance.” He hesitated. “A decade and a half of penance.”
She looked his way at last. “A decade—” Crimson rushed to her cheeks. “What?”
“When you were seventeen.”
She thought. “My abortion.”
He nodded.
She stared at his face, searching again. Then at the cold fried fish. She sat that way a long time. He came up behind her, put his hand on her hair. No reaction, no resistance. He cleared the table but left her plate. He boiled water, washed dishes. She didn’t move. She said, “Would you—heat up that piece of fish for me?”
It crackled lightly in the butter. The garlic came alive again. He gave her the crispy doré.
She ate it, five tiny bites. “I wonder how rich the mercury content is,” she said.
They went to bed, made the best of love, held each other. Over the next days she ate no more fish. Nor mentioned the conversation.
The pervasive calm of the wilderness was replaced by a mighty storm, black sheets of rain. So they spent the afternoon in bed, hours of delicate exploration, responsible only to the moment and each other. Carney rediscovered, and discovered, some remarkable pleasures. The body even after the half-century mark was not too old to learn. Though it, at least Carney’s, had come to feel the wear.
The next day from morning to night they trolled or cast. By late afternoon she admitted a fishy strike from the depths did send a thrill through her. Carney had her hooked, yes he did. They released all she caught. Including a pike longer and heavier than Carney’s big one; at the end she let her line go slack and the fish, near three feet long, parallel to the side of the boat, shook his immense snout, spat out the red and white Dardevle and glided, peaceful, into black water.
The evenings too were fine. Even Sarah’s beans and grains, cooked over a wood fire, tasted grand. They talked as if compensating for early silences. No one mentioned penance.
After the rainstorm, calm had returned. Monday morning, floating, the motor cut, the sun high overhead, a carnal urge came into their minds at the same instant and they committed, across the seat of their round-bottomed boat, lustful and voluptuous love. Without falling overboard. Three blackflies drew blood from Carney’s butt.
Later Sarah covered the bloated bites with her special lotion. “A sexy horny new strain of blackfly coming into the world,” she divined. Even with the goo, the bites itched.
In the evening they sat staring into the fire. She pulled close to him and took his hand. “I’m the world’s biggest blackfly.” She bit his neck, gently. “What’s it like, Carney blood?”
He laughed. “Like Sarah blood.”
She shook her head, “Nope,” played with his fingers, her eyes examined his nails, his knuckles. “Blood with one name.” His right thumb so fascinated her she had to taste it.
The wicked witch incarnate.
She stroked his cheek, testing it.
She wouldn’t dare. “Sarah we could go—ow!”
“Carney blood.” She nibbled his earlobe. Bit. An intake of breath, no other response. She stared.
He got up.
“Going somewhere?”
“For a bit of air.”
She thought: almost okay. “Can I come with you?”
He nodded. She walked with him down to the water’s edge. He stared out over the silent lake for a long time. At last he put his arm over her shoulder. She held him to her tight.
In bed the last morning Sarah said, “Fish or fuck?”
“How about putting both on the agenda?”
“And a little foretalk?”
Carney felt the tic of Mot. “Sure.”
“When you first came to my cottage and you sat so silent, what were you thinking?”
“Oh, figuring out what you were thinking.”
“All the time?”
“Till I gave up. You baffled me.”
She laughed, pinched him.
“Ow! I’ve only got one of those.”
“And then?”
“I let my mind take its own chaotic
course.”
She grinned. “Good.”
“And you? What was in your silence?”
“You.”
Carney pulled back and looked at her. “Already?”
“Not in that way. Just nice not to have to talk all the time.”
“Hmm.” He drew close again.
“Silence has gone out of style. You didn’t mind being quiet. Even with someone you barely knew.”
“Clever, right?”
“Very.” She paused. “You know how to listen. Which isn’t the same as staying quiet.”
That stopped the conversation. They went on to item two. Calm hung misty about them.
They fished, they caught and released, they packed, they loaded the plane. “Next time let’s go farther north, right up to Hudson Bay.”
“Not if you want to eat what you catch.”
Memory tickled. “Mercury?”
She nodded. “All that land flooded for the power dams. Chemicals from the drowned trees leach mercury out of the rock. Rock that’s been stable millions of years, till now.”
Tuesday afternoon they flew away, over hundreds of lakes looking virgin from the air, down the power-line corridor, passing Montreal, Burlington, to the Carney and Co. float plane dock. Sarah left for her lab.
5.
On his answering machine at the farmhouse Carney found a dozen messages, including one from Karl. “Give me a call, come up for lunch tomorrow.” And one from Milton. He sounded upset. “You have time? I’d like to show you something.”
Did he have time? Didn’t he once have some other life? He called Milton. “What’s up?”
“More Intraterra mail. I’ll bring it over to you.”
Serious, if Milton would leave Theresa for so long. Carney gave him directions.
Milton arrived, Carney poured them a Scotch. “All day Theresa was in a great mood, jovial. She talked and talked. Slow, but what an improvement.” Milton, right now happy.
“Good.” Carney sipped.
“And she’s reading. She asked Feasie for books. Those movies she’s been watching, remember that actress Lola? Theresa reread two Lola biographies.” He grinned weakly.
“Long as it cheers her up.”
Milton showed Carney two letters, one another offer, but fifty thousand less. The second a response from Aristide Boce, beneath the quality/quantity piety: We fear it will be inappropriate to invite you to Terramac. Thank you for your interest. Sincerely.
Whatever Lola Wants Page 40