Alison Preston - Norwood Flats 02 - The Geranium Girls

by Alison Preston

  The Geranium Girls

  Alison Preston

  © 2002, Alison Preston

  Print Edition ISBN 978-0921833-83-3

  Ebook Edition, 2011

  ISBN 978-1897109-66-3

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, for any reason, by any means, without the permission of the publisher.

  Cover design by Terry Gallagher/Doowah Design.

  Cover photo of Alison Preston by Tracey L. Sneesby.

  Thanks to Jan Beverage, Brenda Bourbonnais, Gail Bowen, Michael Bromilow, Eric Crone, Jacquie Crone, Steve Colley, Terri Colley, Adrienne Doole, Vic Ferrier, Susan Gifford, Kate Graham, Catherine Hunter, Lorraine Pronger, Reg Quinton, Cathy Small, Larry Small, Chris Thompson, and especially Karen Haughian and John Preston.

  Thanks to the Manitoba Arts Council for its generous support during the writing of this book.

  We acknowledge the support of The Canada Council for the Arts and the Manitoba Arts Council for our publishing program.

  National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Preston, Alison, 1949-

  The geranium girls

  I. Title.

  PS8581.R44G47 2002 C813’.54 C2002-901554-5

  PR9199.3.P728G47 2002

  Signature Editions, P.O. Box 206, RPO Corydon

  Winnipeg, Manitoba, R3M 3S7

  For Bruce

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  The Party

  About the Author

  Also by Alison Preston

  Prologue

  Baby Frouten trudges the quarter mile from her home on the edge of town to the Texaco station on the highway. Sweat sluices between her fat thighs as she struggles against the white heat of the July afternoon.

  She goes to see her friend, Hank the Bear — the burly man who owns the gas station. He lets her sit on a bench and watch him while he works. Hank is her only friend; he looks out for her, tries to keep the bad boys away. But she has had her share. Hank can’t always be there.

  Cramps start up in her belly, worse than the ones that come when she bleeds.

  “May I use the biffy, Hank?”

  “Of course, Baby. No need to ask.”

  It’s more than an hour later when Hank rolls out from beneath Dick Wilson’s nearly new ’62 Ford and sees that Baby isn’t there. He also sees the bright red spots on the cement and thinks for a second that they’re petals. He follows them outside to the washroom at the side of the garage.

  A dizziness comes over Hank. And he can’t tell if the buzzing sound he hears is in his brain or if it comes from the flies lighting on the crimson pool that seeps out from under the door.

  “Baby!” he shouts and tries the knob.

  “Baby!” he roars and kicks the door down with one go.

  No one knew; she was that fat under her cotton shifts.

  Hank cuts the cord with his pocket knife.

  “Hang on, Sweetheart.” The words catch in his throat, unheard.

  No one man could move Baby Frouten, not even Hank the Bear. He fears it may be too late to help her anyway. He wraps the tiny boy in a clean rag and phones the hospital to tell them what has happened. The closest ambulance is in Morden today — a good twenty minutes away. Hank careens through town in his pickup truck — drives to the hospital with one hand on the wheel. The small bundle rests quietly in the crook of his right arm.

  On the way, he passes Doc Waters and the day orderly, Fred Briggs, in the doctor’s car. They’re on their way to tend to Baby at the gas station. Hank shouts out the window, “I’ll be back to help in a minute, as soon as I drop this little tyke off.”

  Baby bleeds to death by the time they get to her.

  A blessing, some say.

  Baby’s older sister, Hortense, is left to care for the newborn. The two women never knew their mother and their father had been killed eight months ago in an accident at the feed lot where he worked. Not that he would have been much good raising another kid. He wouldn’t have won any prizes for the job he did on his own girls.

  And as for the father of the infant, it could be anyone.

  So Hortense brings up Baby’s son. It’s a job she wants. Maybe she can teach one boy some manners, teach him in such a way that he will know better than to hurt the likes of her sister who died.

  And he could be used for other things. She can picture a few scenarios that look pretty good from where she stands.

  Hortense keeps the boy on a short leash that she tugs too hard. She does more than that, but only away from the eyes of the town.

  When she is busy in the house, she ties him to a chair, tightly, so he can barely move. When she is busy in the yard, she ties him to a tree, a shady spot where the mosquitoes have their way. If he cries she stuffs a wash cloth in his mouth till he simmers down.

  One hot day, in 1966, Hank the Bear drives by the house and hears Hortense screaming louder than he believes possible. “Stop your whining,” she screams. Hank feels it in his bones.

  He stops the truck, unsure of what to do. He offers to take the boy to Rock Lake for the afternoon, for a swim and a romp.

  “That would be fun, wouldn’t it,” Hortense says. Both the boy and Hank nod gingerly, afraid of the woman’s voice echoing in their heads. Neither of them wanted to hear it again.

  “Well, fun isn’t what this child needs,” Hortense says. But at least she says it quietly.

  So no one interferes, not even Hank. No one wants to take it on.

  Hank the Bear shudders the length of him the day he watches them board the bus for the city — the small boy in a harness and the tall thin woman, ramrod straight, who looks like she has a fishing rod poked up her ass.

  When Hortense arrives in the city, one of the first things she does is buy a thin gold band at Woolworth’s. She lets on that she’s a widow; her husband died in a farm accident, she says.

  With the ring on her finger, she changes her last name — goes to the Norquay Building, pays the basic fee of fifty dollars, and changes it to Keller. She can be whoever she wants to be. Hortense she keeps; she likes her first name, thinks it has a no-nonsense ring to it. There’s very little nonsense about Hortense Frouten Keller.

  She and the boy live in an apartment on Vaughan Street, across from the Bay, for a few years.

  The Manitoba Telephone System hires her on as an operator. She hasn’t done this type of
work before but knows she will be good at it. Every morning, after dropping the boy off at kindergarten, and later, at school, she rides a bus to the telephone offices on Corydon Avenue. Hortense is a dependable employee; she takes her job seriously.

  She saves up for a down payment on a house. It doesn’t take long for them to move into a place of their own, as Hortense already has a nest egg from the sale of the old place in Pilot Mound.

  Chapter 1

  It was a wet spring. The ground didn’t get a chance to dry out between rainfalls. Beryl tramped through the bushes in St. Vital Park, away from the well-trodden paths. She slogged through long grass and thistles, poison ivy and mushrooms. Mushrooms in June! That’s how wet it was. Her sneakers were soaked through.

  Something long, solid and rounded, like a thin baseball bat, caught her hard in the arch of her foot. She lost her balance and toppled to a sitting position in the drenched forest. With one hand sunk in the boggy soil, she boosted herself onto a fallen log where it wasn’t quite so wet. Beryl removed her shoe and massaged the sore area. I should have stuck to the regular trail, she thought. I should be home drinking coffee.

  “What the hell was that?” she muttered. Something stunk; she smelled her hand. And then her gaze drifted to the ground.

  Her chest clenched. It squeezed and let go, squeezed again. A female form lay next to Beryl in the woods; she had touched it. It was the shin bone that had caused her to tumble to the ground. Bone on bone. No wonder it hurt so much.

  Her breath didn’t return for so long she thought she would die. She forced it. Manually — like turning off the toaster before it popped up the toast on its own — it could be done.

  With her eyes she followed the long length of the girl — she was tall and very slender. Beryl hoped she was dead. Dealing with a live thing so close to death seemed beyond what she was capable of doing. She needn’t have worried. This person was gone. Beryl knew this when she forced her gaze to rest upon the face. She had no experience with long-dead bodies, but no experience was necessary.

  The dead girl’s mouth was open wide. Mushrooms were growing there. Someone must have filled her mouth with dirt. How else could this be? Beryl closed her eyes for a long minute to give the face a chance to disappear. It didn’t. A colony of mushrooms was using the head of a girl as a planter.

  It rained softly at first, then hard, like a punishment.

  She held out her hand and the rain washed it clean.

  Pain in her foot. Pain from the shin bone of a dead girl. She could still feel the hard roundness pressing into her.

  She wished she hadn’t seen the face. The mushroom face. But she had; it was hers to keep. Like a birthmark, like a tattoo. Let me go back, she prayed, so I don’t have to carry this forever.

  Chapter 2

  The rain came lighter now.

  Beryl snatched up her sock and shoe and stumbled through the trees in search of help.

  The first people she met on the park road were an elderly man and woman in yellow rain slickers. She frightened them with her bare foot and stuttering explanations. Her teeth chattered as she spoke. It was the mushrooms that she mentioned.

  “Sh…she has m…mushrooms in her mouth. Please help.”

  The man seemed willing to listen, but the woman dragged him away.

  “Come on, Carl. She’s obviously out of her mind on drugs or sniff.”

  “Sniff?” Carl asked. “What’s sniff? Are you sure we shouldn’t help her?”

  “Yes, I’m sure! For goodness’ sakes, come on!” the woman said. “She might have a knife or something.”

  Carl shuffled off at the end of his wife’s arm.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “But she’s dead,” Beryl croaked and fell to her knees.

  She didn’t usually walk on a Saturday morning. It was a chance to stay home, sleep in. But today had been so crystal clear at the start, after the night rain. It enticed her and she hauled up her heavy one-speed bike from the basement. She pedalled through the glittering streets, turned in at the winding road leading into the park and locked her bike to a tree.

  A tall man approached through the drizzle and crouched next to her on the road.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, peering into her face. “Can I help?” His eyes were a deep blue.

  She pointed to the spot in the bushes where the body lay, and said, “A dead girl… Please.”

  The man, who was very thin, like the girl, ploughed into the woods and out again.

  “Dear God in heaven,” he said.

  “Then I…I didn’t imagine her,” Beryl said. She sat on the edge of the road, hugging her knees to her chest, oblivious to the wet.

  “No. No, she’s very real. Dear God.”

  The man fumbled through the pockets of his sweat pants for his phone and made the 911 call. The operator told him to stay on the line till the police arrived. She said it wouldn’t be long. And they’d want his help to find the body.

  “I’ll be here,” he said. “Don’t worry. I’ll wave them down. Joe. My name is Joe.”

  As Beryl and Joe waited for the cops to come the clouds shifted and the sun rose high in the June sky. They sat side by side on the edge of the road.

  Lines from an old Lynyrd Skynyrd song played themselves over and over in Beryl’s head: lines about the smell of death, the smell of death surrounding you.

  A policewoman placed a small blanket around Beryl’s shoulders, but she couldn’t stop shaking.

  “Let me help you with your shoe,” Joe said and took a little blue towel from around his neck. It was damp but he dried her foot as best he could, removing old leaves and bits of twig. He fitted it back into the soggy runner, not bothering with her sock.

  “I know it’s probably not very comfortable,” he said, “but you need to have shoes on.”

  “It’s okay. It doesn’t feel so bad.”

  They talked some, of small things. Joe Paine was a veterinarian out for a walk. He always walked in St. Vital Park on Saturday mornings, rain or shine. He had left his truck at the entrance, not far from Beryl’s bike.

  Mostly they just watched, quietly sitting, then standing, then sitting again in their damp spots by the side of the road, through the cordoning off of the area, through the photographer and the medical examiner, and all the other people who came and went, people whose jobs were connected to suspicious death. Finally they watched the careful carrying away of the long form of the mushroom girl.

  Joe stayed a little too close at times. Beryl wanted people around, but she also needed to breathe. At one point, she couldn’t tell if she was still shaking or if it was Joe’s shivery presence beside her. And he smelled funny. Medicinal. Or maybe it was the inside of her own nostrils. Everything seemed very confusing.

  Beryl heard a young cop call the girl “it.”

  “Looks like it’s been here for a while,” he said.

  She wanted to object, but couldn’t speak. Another policeman did it for her.

  “Not ‘it,’ asshole,” he said. “She!”

  “Sorry, sir. I wasn’t thinking.”

  The older cop wore street clothes, jeans and a golf shirt. He walked away, slowing by Beryl to say, “I’m sorry you had to see her.”

  He looked familiar.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  He didn’t seem to recognize her and she knew they’d never met, but she’d seen him before, she knew she had. He was from her neighbourhood; that was it. She was glad he was here now. His presence comforted her, more than that of the jittery veterinarian who had come to her aid.

  Beryl wondered aloud why Joe didn’t have any animals with him on his outing, his being a vet and all.

  His eyes filled up.

  “I’ve just been to the vet myself, actually,” he said. “I had to have my old cat put down this morning.”

  “Oh, no,” Beryl said. “I’m really sorry.”

  She reached out and suddenly didn’t know where to touch him. She chose his forearm and used h
er good hand, which was the way she came to think of the hand that hadn’t touched the girl.

  “Jesus, I know how hard that is.”

  “Yeah. He was a wonderful cat. I had him since he was five weeks old. And he turned twenty last Tuesday. His name was Rollo.”

  Beryl took her hand back. “That’s a good old age.”

  She said the words, but her heart wasn’t in this. She wanted to be away from this man, to go home and shower and then bathe in fragrant bubbles and curl up in her nightgown in front of a wood fire and stare into it. If only it were winter. She looked over at Joe.