Cora would not be canning or freezing foods this year. What was the point? She had no one to cook for. As she listened, she realized that the colour Vicky was wearing bothered her as much as the intrusion. Cora had promised Samuel, to whom she talked aloud at home and at the graveyard, that she would wear black for at least six months. She soon had to amend her resolution to include brown, and one day even a very dark burgundy. She didn’t own many black clothes to begin with, and now, with the weight she kept losing, fewer things fit. She’d struggled briefly with whether to buy more clothes but, in the end, decided Samuel wouldn’t mind her expanding the colour range. This decision caused her some unease about the whole enterprise. Samuel had liked bright colours—on his first day in the special ed. class at high school last year he’d carried his new pink and orange lunch bag like a trophy. His favourite colour was Smarties purple. So for whom was she wearing black? She rose. “Can I get you some coffee?”
Vicky followed Cora into the kitchen, where Cora found cake in the freezer and cut two slices to microwave. She let the tap run for a minute, then filled the kettle. “I hope instant is okay.”
“Sure.”
Cora spooned the granules into two mugs. “Oh, I don’t have any milk or cream.” She held on to the counter for a moment, feeling out of place in her own kitchen.
“That’s okay.” Vicky’s voice was bright. “I should drink it black anyway, save the calories for that coffee cake. I thought you bought your milk from Lawrence.”
The neighbour to the other side. Samuel had liked those weekly trips to Lawrence’s milkhouse. “I cancelled it. I wasn’t getting through it before it went off.”
Once the water boiled, Cora made coffee, and they carried it and the cake to the living room. Vicky set her mug on the coffee table and cleared her throat. “So, Cora,” she said, flashing her white teeth in a quick, nervous smile, “I have an idea. It’s what I came over to talk to you about.” Cora gripped the wooden armrests of her chair. “I think you should take a trip,” Vicky said. “To Vancouver.”
Cora blinked. She stared at Vicky. Vicky’s smile faltered slightly, but she continued energetically. “You’ve had a very rough year, with Samuel in and out of hospital, all those trips to Red Deer, and then of course—” her voice broke off. She glanced at the floor, straightened the sleeve of her sweater, and continued. “It’s not good for you to be alone so much, and winter is coming, and I think you need to get away.” Cora thought about the weekend a year before when she had asked Vicky to look after Samuel so she could attend a needlepoint show in Calgary. Vicky had refused—it was harvest season, and she just couldn’t take Samuel on, she’d said. Not with her own kids to look after and her husband in the field all day.
“Why Vancouver?” Cora asked now.
“Well.” Vicky squirmed on the sofa. “I was thinking . . . thinking that you and I could go together.” Her words flowed quickly. “I have it figured out, and my family is fine with it. Harvey’s mother can come from Lethbridge to help with the kids for three or four days. Rodney can do my chores in the barn.” Her voice sounded a bit doubtful on that point, and Cora wanted to smile. Rodney was sixteen now, but Vicky had always babied him.
“Where would we stay?” Cora asked. How much planning had she done?
“My cousin told me about a bed and breakfast close to downtown. With lovely big breakfasts.”
“What would we do there?”
“We could see the sights. It’s a gorgeous city, beautiful in the fall.” Vicky’s melodic voice ascended. Cora was reminded of the year Vicky taught Sunday school. How she tolerated Samuel’s antics, how her voice had stayed cheerful, just like now, even as she described his behaviour to Cora. The low-ceilinged church basement had spooked Samuel, and he’d refused to sit on the little wooden chairs. Instead, he hovered near the wall, calling out the most recent hockey scores and asking anyone who would listen, “Do you like the Calgary Flames or the Edmonton Oilers better? The Oilers or the Flames?”
Cora took a tiny bite of the coffee cake. It was tasty—a blueberry sour-cream cake someone had brought over after the funeral. But it was still so hard to swallow anything. Her throat felt like a garden hose with a kink in it. She put the fork down.
Vicky was still talking about how good such a trip could be for Cora. The arguments wafted past—a change in scenery, deciding what to do next in life, new opportunities. Vicky leaned forward. “Cora,” she said, “all you’ve done for as long as I’ve known you is to look after Samuel and work. That’s been your lot in life. Now you’re free to do something else. A trip is just the right thing.” Her voice was firm and, Cora thought, a bit condescending. Cora held up a hand.
“Thank you for coming over,” she said. “And thanks for thinking of me. But I can’t afford a trip. It’s a good idea, and kind of you.” She looked at Vicky. It was kind, she told herself. Really, in different circumstances, she was not someone Vicky would choose to take a trip with. “It’s kind, but after the funeral expenses” —her eyes watered— “after the funeral expenses, I don’t think I can swing it right now.”
“I thought of that,” Vicky said quietly. “I hope you don’t mind, but I talked to Reverend Dykstra about our idea. There’s money in the Benevolence Fund that would pay for your trip.” Cora squirmed, and Vicky said quickly, “I know you might not feel comfortable with that, but it’s okay to accept help sometimes. We all need help sometimes.”
• • •
November was cold, but no more than a few centimetres of snow coated the ground, and it was an easy trip to the cemetery on Forest Road. The grave had no headstone yet. Once the funeral arrangements were made, Cora felt incapable of more decisions. So there was only a marker: Samuel Van Harn. Cora had kept her married name after the divorce; it seemed easier and less confusing for Samuel. But what was the point of the namesake, she wondered as she gazed at the black letters on white plastic. Geoff had never phoned, never visited. When she and Samuel moved to Poplar Grove, Cora didn’t even try to contact Geoff with their new address.
Cora leaned toward the grave. She could see the fine mist of her breath as she talked. “Hi, Samuel,” she said. “It’s too cold to stay long today.” A few chickadees pecked through the dusting of snow on the ground looking for seeds. “Not much is new, Samuel. Haven’t talked to anyone this week. I don’t seem to have much of a social life without you. Haven’t even talked to Vicky. Maybe she’s mad that I said no to the trip.” Cora looked at the ground, picturing the wooden box her son lay inside. “Vicky thinks I’m free now,” she said.
• • •
One afternoon in mid-December, she arrived at the cemetery to find someone was already there. A thin, tall woman, underdressed for the bitter day, stood in front of a small grave with a marker set flat in the ground. A baby’s grave, thought Cora, probably a stillborn. She trod a few steps closer. Was it old Mrs. Bouwen? But Mrs. Bouwen didn’t have a dead child, at least not that Cora knew. As she approached, she could hear Mrs. Bouwen’s sobs, big, gasping moans. “Mrs. Bouwen,” she called softly as she approached. She looked down at the grave marker. “Baby VanEng,” read the marker. “B—July 23, 1986 D—July 24, 1986.” Below this she could just make out the epitaph—had Mrs. Bouwen wiped away the snow?
Our little flower lent not given
To bud on earth and bloom in heaven
But that has to be Vicky’s baby, then, thought Cora. Vicky and her husband, Harvey, were the only VanEngs in Poplar Grove, and the date—could this baby have been their first, before Rodney? Vicky had never said anything. Why was Mrs. Bouwen weeping in front of this grave?
“Mrs. Bouwen? It’s me, Cora Van Harn.” Mrs. Bouwen turned toward Cora, with no sign of recognition.
“He was so good to me.” Mrs. Bouwen waved a bony ungloved hand toward the baby’s grave. “A good husband. A good father.”
“You mean Mr. Bouwen, don’t you?”
“My husband. He passed away in nineteen ninety- . . . My husband is dead,�
� she cried.
Cora regarded her. She must have walked the two kilometres to the cemetery from her house. She still lived in the tiny farmhouse where she and her husband had raised their three kids. Her son, who now ran the farm, lived in a trailer on the lot with his wife and son. Strange, thought Cora, that she seemed so grief-stricken. Everybody knew that Mr. Bouwen had been a mean old man—tight-fisted, verbally abusive to his kids and maybe to his wife too. For months after his death, the Sears delivery van made regular stops at Mrs. Bouwen’s house—finally she’d been able to buy a new washer and dryer, a mattress, a sofa. Her old man must be rolling over in his grave, Cora heard someone say at church the day after Mrs. Bouwen’s new porch swing showed up. About time she got some joy out of life, Vicky had said.
But what to do now? Mrs. Bouwen was obviously confused. Her husband’s grave was across the cemetery. The snow was not deep, but Mrs. Bouwen was not wearing a toque or mittens. “Mrs. Bouwen,” said Cora, “it’s time for us to go home now.”
“Did you lose someone too, dear?” Mrs. Bouwen looked sympathetic.
“Yes,” said Cora, feeling her throat tighten. “My son, Samuel. He died a few months ago. Four months ago.”
“Samuel. I don’t think I knew him,” said Mrs. Bouwen, shaking her head. “But I’m sure you did, my dear. No one knows our own losses like we do. We suffer alone.” Now Mrs. Bouwen was nodding her head up and down in rhythm. “Did you know him?” she asked.
“Ah, yes. He was my son,” said Cora, jarred.
“Yes. You said that.” Mrs. Bouwen looked down at the tomb marker in front of her feet. “This baby’s mom didn’t know him. He died too soon. Less than a full day after he was born.”
“It was a boy?”
“I think it was. My memory’s not so good. Maybe I’m thinking of Vicky’s second baby—that was a boy, I think.”
“Yes, Rodney. So this is Vicky’s baby?”
“Of course, dear. He died. She was so sad. For weeks and weeks she came here and cried. Harvey would try to take her home, but she wouldn’t go with him.” She looked up suddenly. “Where is your boy—that big sweet boy you have? So unfortunate about his crossed eyes.”
“Uh, he’s dead. He died last August,” Cora said. Her heart was battering her chest now, with grief and the strangeness of this conversation.
“Ohhh,” breathed Mrs. Bouwen. “He’s dead too.” She was nodding again. Then she turned and took Cora’s arms. Her eyes were morning-glory blue. “I am so sorry, dear. My sorrow can’t help you, but”—she looked down at her coat—“I don’t think I have anything else to give you.” She looked so troubled that Cora wanted to comfort her. Before she could think of something to say, Mrs. Bouwen’s face brightened. She said, “At home in my new deep freeze, I have a pie—a cherry pie. You look frail, dear. Is anyone bringing you food?”
“I’m fine,” said Cora. She was in a foreign country, jet-lagged and disoriented. She took a breath. “Let’s get you home. It’s too cold out here for us to stay.”
• • •
The lights flickered. The power was going to go out, that was certain. Given the amount of snow and the blowing winds, it was just a matter of time. Cora glanced at the clock—4:30 PM—then peered out the kitchen window, already caked with snow. She should have driven to town yesterday to buy batteries and matches. Maybe she should phone Vicky. She checked the kitchen drawer again, though the search was pointless. She’d avoided buying things that would ignite—Samuel had loved fires. On last year’s church youth group camping trip, instead of playing campfire games with the other kids, he’d set sticks on fire and waved them in time to the songs he sang. Cora had asked the laughing youth group leader what songs Samuel had sung. The leader laughed harder. Mostly “C’mon Baby, Light My Fire” but then he’d break into—the leader had imitated Samuel’s nasal monotone,
God sees the little sparrow fall, It meets his tender view;
If God so loves the little birds, I know he loves me, too—
Cora had shaken her head. Samuel had a good memory for the songs he was taught in Sunday-school, but where had he learned the Doors song? What she would give now to hear him sing anything at all, she thought, closing the drawer.
The room went dim. Cora fetched the quilt from her bedroom, feeling her way through the dark hallway. Downstairs again, she picked up the phone, but the line was dead. The house had a gas fireplace—she rarely used it, but tonight it would be the only source of heat. She shoved the sofa closer to the fireplace and wrapped the quilt around her. Outside the wind shrieked and sleet battered the windows. After a while she dozed, dreaming about a chickadee lost under the snow, and then about Samuel, who sat halfway up the nearby tobogganing hill, refusing to pull his toboggan any farther.
The doorbell rang. She must have imagined it. It was probably 8:00 PM by now. It sounded again. Perhaps someone stranded in the storm? Still wrapped in the quilt she scuttled to the door. Someone tall and thin, clothed in ski pants, ski jacket, and snowmobile boots. Rodney. “Come in—quickly!” she said.
He entered, holding a shopping bag from Esprit, a store Vicky often visited in Edmonton. He didn’t offer her the bag, though it must be for her, whatever it was. Not, surely, a gift of clothing during a storm. She shivered and shook her head. She needed to wake up. And to get warm. And to eat something. When was the last time she ate?
Rodney was talking to her, his pimply face earnest, his hands crumpling the bag so that it rustled in accompaniment to his words.
“You’ll have to ride on the snowmobile, but it’s not far. Mom says you can’t stay here with the power out—you’ll freeze to death.”
“I have my gas fireplace,” she said, with little conviction. She shivered.
He stood, uncertain, watching her. “Mom said you should come,” he said again, looking like a small boy sent on an important errand.
“What’s in the bag?” she asked. Why would he arrive with a bag if he were there to fetch her?
Rodney looked sheepish. “Well”—he wiped his wet bangs away from his eyes—“Mom told me I absolutely had to make you come to our house. But then she said if you absolutely refused, I should give you this shepherd’s pie. It’s warm—Mom heated it on the camp stove and wrapped it with a hot water bottle.”
• • •
Vicky, I feel weighed down lately, Cora said, only not aloud. The waves slithered up the wide beach, then slid away to the blackening ocean. Actually, not so much weighed down as unhinged. Like when I was a kid watching the night sky, seeing the stars going on forever.
She stared out at the water as they walked, looked to the vague line of the horizon—one dark grey meeting another, a blurry smear like the soggy watercolours Samuel used to paint. I think I’m drifting away, she told Vicky, only her voice—had she spoken aloud?—drifted apart like vapour, like her breath, lost to the elements.
Vicky spoke. “I stopped at a cute little boutique this afternoon and bought a few summery things—I tried not to spend much money, but we packed for rainier and cooler weather than this.” Vicky was wearing a sundress with tropical pink and orange flowers twining over it, growing up from the hemline at her ankles. “Pretty hot and balmy for May in Vancouver,” she added. Cora thought the dress must be new. Maybe she should compliment Vicky on it. But now Vicky was saying, “We could go out for seafood tonight yet, or maybe just pizza.”
Cora gazed at the strait and imagined swimming out and out and out, swimming until her muscles failed her. The death she imagined was gentle—no flailing arms or thrashing legs. Her head just slipping silently from one element into another.
“Or we could eat in,” Vicky added. “Microwave something.” She bent to pick up a shell and held up her find, a pearly jingle shell. She said, “We could watch a movie or we could read . . .”
Cora tried to remember if she packed a book. She had looked at one in the airport bookstore. A recent translation of Beowulf. Was Beowulf the monster or the main character? she’d wondered, fl
ipping through it. “Whoever remains for long here in this earthly life will enjoy and endure more than enough,” she’d read and then placed the book gently back on the shelf.
“Well, what would you like to do?” Vicky was asking. What? Cora stopped in place, feeling unhinged again, wanting both feet on the ground at once. But in spite of the vast expanses around her roaring and tugging, she could hear the faint pleading in Vicky’s voice. On an impulse—they had known each other for so many years now—she took Vicky’s arm. She was astonished at how warm and solid it felt. She looked down at Vicky’s feet. Probably it was just the twilight, but the flowers that wound over Vicky’s dress looked like they began not at the hemline, but as if they were rooted solidly in the earth below. For the moment the sky receded and Cora stood in the suddenly benign evening air. She held on to Vicky, grounded, grateful for her arm, and gulped in deep, sustaining breaths.
Killdeer God
AFTER HIGH SCHOOL, I spent a lonely year at university and then married Lawrence, a boy I’d known from church and school. We started a family right away and last year, with some help from Lawrence’s parents, we bought our own farm a few kilometres west of Lacombe. While I’d been away, my old friend Kristy had moved to Red Deer, where she gave manicures in a day spa.
I’d seen her briefly three Christmases before at the morning service. She had a boyfriend, Joseph Dove, with her, who looked as out of place in the sanctuary as our minister does at the annual rodeo. Joseph was a thin chain-smoker with a handsome face and nervous fingers. He won’t stay with you, I wanted to tell Kristy. She followed him to Edmonton and two years later they had a son.
Catch Me When I Fall Page 9