A Green Place for Dying

by R. J. Harlick

  “But I tell you, life’s too short. Who knows what will happen tomorrow? So Meg, if you truly love the guy, which I believe you do, pick up that goddamn phone when you get home and call him, okay?”

  I felt myself reeling. “But he doesn’t love me, otherwise he would’ve called by now. After all, it’s a year and one month since we broke up.”

  “Oh, Meg, cut the crap. Of course he loves you. What in the hell do you think he’s been bending my ear about since you kicked his butt out of your house?”

  “I didn’t kick him out of my house. He left of his own accord.”

  “Yeah, but not without some pushing by you.”

  I tried to hold back the tears. I didn’t want to cry in front of Eric’s best friend. But I could feel them beginning to trickle down my cheeks.

  “I don’t know what to do, Will. I’m scared to death of marriage. And Eric gave every indication that it was the only kind of relationship he wanted with me.”

  “Are you sure? Have you talked it out with him?”

  That sweltering summer night a little more than a year ago, when Eric had asked me to marry him, was seared in my brain. His offer had been so unexpected and sudden that it had freaked me out. As my stomach twisted with fear and dread, I’d stood there like a zombie, unable to speak or move. Seeing my hesitation, he’d accused me of refusing to marry him because he was native. As I tripped over a plausible explanation, terrified of revealing the real reason, he’d slammed my bedroom door and raced down the stairs and out of my life. We’d shared nothing but icy politeness since.

  I shook my head. “No….” I hesitated. “I’m afraid to.”

  “Come here, Meg, you need a hug.”

  Will folded me against the barrel of his chest and gently patted me on the head. It felt good, so very good. It had been a long time since a man had held me.

  “I know you’ve got problems,” he continued. “That’s why you drink. But Christ, we’ve all got them. There’s nothing for you to be afraid of. Eric is one hell of an understanding guy. Besides, you’re not the same scared woman who arrived in our neck of the woods I don’t know how many years go. I think you’re a lot happier in your own skin now, aren’t you?”

  He gave me a final squeeze then released me.

  I wiped the tears from my face and looked up into his almost puppy dog eyes, hardly the kind one would expect in a cop. I wasn’t sure if I could agree with him. Life hadn’t seemed too hot lately … not since Eric had exited my life. But I wasn’t going to admit this. Will would only turn around and tell Eric.

  “Promise me, you’ll call him, okay?” Will said.

  “Un-hun,” I muttered. I had no intention of doing so.

  Why should I be the one to span the gulf? Eric could do it just as easily as me. I glanced back up at Will. His expression of hope had changed to skepticism.

  “Don’t be so quick to reject it, Meg. At least think about it.”

  “But why should I be the one to make the first call? If you’re giving Eric the same advice, why hasn’t he called me?”

  Chuckling, Will shook his head. “Because he’s a lot more stubborn than you are.”

  I smiled inwardly. That he was. I remember the time he was teaching me to paddle whitewater. I was having difficulty grasping the proper paddling techniques. I wanted to give up, but Eric kept badgering me until finally the light bulb went on and I found myself doing prys and draws like a pro.

  “Okay, I’ll think about it.”

  But if I did go back with Eric, the truth about my brother would eventually have to come out. And what would Eric think of me then? I knew I wouldn’t be able to face the disgust in eyes that had once held love. At least now it was plain ordinary indifference. Yes, I would think about it, but I knew the answer would have to be no. Better to have parted on a misunderstanding than to be spurned because of the terrible mistake I’d made almost thirty years ago.

  A sudden horn blast jarred me out of my thoughts. I found myself at bumper level with one of the buses while the driver waved frantically at Will and me to get out of the way. We hastily jumped to one side as the bus slid by with the passengers’ curious stares firmly fixed on the two of us. Some even had the glint of gossip in their eyes. Most likely tongues would begin wagging the minute they got back to the reserve. I doubted Will’s hug, as innocent as it was, would help his floundering marriage. And it would only serve to widen the gap between Eric and me. But that was okay.

  On the drive home, Will had no further opportunity to chastise me. Thank God. With the cruiser crammed with others from the reserve, the discussion focused on the search and its failure to find anything belonging to Fleur. Needless to say, they viewed this as good news. I followed the chief’s lead and kept the bad news to myself.

  As we wended our way back along the highway, I played with a piece of quartz I’d noticed in the parking lot. Its sparkle had caught my attention as I was getting into the cruiser. Close examination revealed the sparkle came from a thin thread of what could very well be gold.

  It reminded me of the quartz I’d found on Whispers Island when a mining company had wanted to develop a gold mine directly across from my cottage on Echo Lake. Worried that the mine would destroy our northern paradise, Eric and I had joined forces to fight its development. That was the first time I’d had anything to do with the Migiskan band chief. Afterward, our relationship had grown, sometimes bumpily, until I’d felt he had become my other half. He was like an old shoe, comfortable and safe. And I’d loved him. Oh, how I had loved him. I still did.

  I glanced at Will’s profile as he concentrated on the quirks of the road. Maybe he was right. Maybe I should be the one to break the logjam. Maybe I should call Eric. And maybe, just maybe, I could keep my dirty little secret to myself.

  I fingered the rock again. It felt warm and comforting, like Eric. In fact, he kept a stone similar to this one in the amulet he wore around his neck. I tucked it into my inside pocket and sighed.

  No. I couldn’t pretend my brother’s death had never happened. It wouldn’t be fair to Eric. If we were to get back together, it would be for the long haul, regardless of whether we married or not. He would want an open and honest relationship. As would I. Maybe he would be able to forgive me, but if I had never been able to forgive myself, how could I expect him to?

  Chapter

  Eleven

  Although I’d summoned up the courage to call Eric when I got home, I ended up convincing myself I was too tired after spending all day in the bush. He probably wouldn’t be in any state either for a serious discussion after his long day in airports and the long-haul flight from Vancouver. Besides, the headache reverberating through my brain was preventing me from concentrating on anything other than the necessities of life.

  All I could manage was cooking up a basic meal, my usual Kraft Dinner smothered in homemade chili sauce, a local farmer’s, not mine. I wouldn’t know where to begin to make the scrumptious tomato sauce. Dinner was eaten on the sofa in front of the TV, where I flaked out for another couple of hours before retreating to bed. I wasn’t even up to joining Sergei in his evening walk. I just clicked open the door and shooed him outside.

  In the morning, after a surprisingly solid night’s sleep, my resolve was somewhat emboldened, but after dialing Eric’s number, I chickened out and slammed the receiver down. I decided a brisk morning walk would do wonders for settling my jangling nerves, so I rounded up reluctant Sergei, who’d been happily asleep on his bed in the kitchen, and spent the next couple of hours rambling the trail through Aunt Aggie’s once prosperous sugar bush. I even tackled the steep incline up to the Lookout, a granite outcrop overlooking my rambling nineteenth-century cottage and the lake beyond.

  I tried to spy Eric amongst a group of people at the end of a dock, which was all I could see of the Forgotten Bay Hunting and Fishing Camp at the far end of the bay. But without binoculars it was impossible to distinguish one tiny figure from another. I plunked myself down on the edge of the o
utcrop and pondered the rest of the view of Echo Lake, while Sergei, intent on searching out enticing smells, rummaged through the underbrush behind me.

  Across the lake, an aluminum boat from the Fishing Camp carved a line through the flat water towards one of the good fishing spots near Whispers Island, while above a bald eagle circled perhaps in hopes of nabbing one of their fish. The gap in the island’s old growth white pine forest, where loggers had cut a number of the ancient giants before being stopped, was starkly visible and would be for another hundred years or more, until they succumbed to the forces of nature.

  For me this scar was a constant reminder of what can happen when man’s greed takes over with little respect for Mother Earth or the people that honour her. Thankfully, the island was no longer in danger. Several years ago its new owner had passed its guardianship on to the Migiskan Anishinabeg with the proviso that they kept the forest intact. Nonetheless, a faction within the community had clamoured to take advantage of the wealth the harvesting of the mature pines would bring.

  Fortunately, Eric succeeded in convincing them that preserving the ancient trees was more important than money. He’d emphasized that it was the last undisturbed forest left in their ninety-square-kilometre territory where they could walk trails their ancestors had walked, camp under a forest canopy their ancestors had camped under, and pay homage to the same trees their ancestors had revered. As one of the last remaining links to the old ways, it should be kept sacred.

  Since then a traditional Algonquin camp had been set up as a learning centre to reacquaint band members with their ancient culture and as a retreat when modern life became too hectic. At various times, an elder would take up residence in one of the birchbark wigwams and serve either as a teacher of traditional Algonquin ways or as a listening ear for life’s burdens.

  It was to this camp, to the hearth of Summer Grass Woman, that I’d fled during one particularly low moment a few months after the break up with Eric, when the bottle had beckoned strongly. The previous day I’d happened on Eric chuckling his all too familiar chuckle in the company of a gorgeous, twenty-pounds-lighter and twenty-years-younger woman. The tranquillity of the island and the elder’s sensible calm had managed to quell the shouting demons, and I’d left feeling sufficiently fortified to resist the alcoholic’s urge. I had remained so for the most part, except for one or two or maybe three slip-ups … like yesterday. Maybe I should visit the island again.

  But no, surely a simple phone call to Eric would be enough….

  Hell, who was I kidding? It would only unleash more demons.

  Through the trees I could make out a glint of morning sun on the back windows of my cottage, while the roof of the turret with its crowning Canada goose weather vane rose above their height. I’d fallen in love with its Victorian eccentricity on my first visit as a child, when I’d come with my family to spend a couple of weeks with Great-aunt Agatha. Over the years she and I had developed an enduring friendship. One of our special times together would be to retreat from the hot summer sun to the shade of the deep wrap-around verandah, where she, rocking back and forth on her bentwood rocker and holding a crystal tumbler of single malt, would regale me with tales of my Harris ancestors, mainly Great-grandpa Joe, her father and the architect of Three Deer Point. Although she never told me the source of the name, I suspected it came from my great-grandfather’s successful hunt of three deer depicted in an old photo hanging in the living room. The “point,” of course, comes from the long finger-like granite peninsula upon which the cottage stands.

  Though I hadn’t immediately taken up residence after she’d bequeathed it to me, it wasn’t because of lack of desire. My husband Gareth had hated it, hated anything that wasn’t surrounded in asphalt and brick. But once I’d removed him from my life, I’d fled to the safety of its foot-thick timber walls and had never regretted my decision to leave the urban life. Like Aunt Aggie, I often found myself in the shelter of the verandah, rocking back and forth in her old rocker, in the early years with a tumbler of lemon vodka and then after Eric reformed me, a cup of coffee or tea, while I pondered the ever-changing lake view and life’s persistent hiccups.

  The sound of an approaching motorboat warned me that I was about to get a visitor. Although the trees and the cliffs of the pine-covered point hid the boat and my dock from view, I could tell by the increasing putt-putt that it was nearing the dock. I tensed at the thought that it might be Eric. I waited for his head to emerge above the cliff wall as he climbed up the steep dock stairs. But the motor didn’t stop. Within seconds a white fibreglass boat with two trolling fishermen puttered into sight as it headed out into the middle of the lake. I relaxed.

  Tired of snuffling after strange smells, Sergei nudged me, impatient to leave. I tried to persuade him to lie down, but he gave me that “No way, José” stubborn stare, so after spending a few more minutes breathing in the fresh forest air, I got up and started the trek back to the cottage. Sergei responded with a joyful toss of his head and bounded back down the trail. Although I couldn’t really call it bounding, it was more like an easy lope. I’d noticed lately that he was slowing down. His broken leg of a few months ago was no doubt a contributing factor, but I felt he might have a touch of arthritis. At nine years, he was getting on for a standard poodle.

  The descending was a lot easier than the climbing. By the time I reached the more level sections of the trail, I was feeling quite invigorated. I was even feeling energized enough to consider restarting Aunt Aggie’s sugar bush operation. Many of her giant sap-producing maples still stood. As I recalled, she’d made a respectable amount of money from the operation, and I could always do with more money. The income from the investments I’d inherited from her was just enough to live modestly without any major purchases, such as a new vehicle. And my rusted-out Ford pick-up was in dire need of replacement. A spiffy new Jag like my sister’s would be just the thing. But hey, who was I kidding. A prissy Jag would never survive the area’s gravel roads. Still, another source of income would come in handy. After all, some of my investments hadn’t done too well of late, and the income they produced was somewhat lower than a couple of years ago.

  Eager to get home, Sergei didn’t linger. Instead he trotted on ahead and was soon lost from view. My feet crunched through a clump of freshly fallen leaves, these ones a deep orange. In another few weeks the trail would be buried under this year’s crop of dying leaves. But for now the surrounding maples still wore their green summer foliage, apart from the odd orange or red leaf.

  A short while later the back of the woodshed loomed into view. At the same time, I caught the sound of a vehicle coming along my road, confirmed by Sergei’s warning yelps. Someone was paying me a visit.

  My heart stopped when I recognized the pale gold Grand Cherokee as it flashed past the gap between the woodshed and pump house.

  Eric was here!

  He’d come. He’d opened the door first.

  But maybe that wasn’t why he was here — maybe this was just a social call to tell me about something happening on the reserve that would affect me, like increasing the number of cabins at the Forgotten Bay Hunting and Fishing Camp, something I’d been dreading for years. It would have to be something important, since he hadn’t set foot on my land since the night he ran out of my house thirteen months and two days ago.

  I took a deep breath and tried to rein in my galloping nerves and plaster an expression of indifference on my face. No way I wanted him to know how much this visit unnerved me. I heard the SUV door click open. Sergei stopped barking. He’d found a friend. But of course he had. He and Eric had always had a special bond.

  Taking another deep breath, I emerged from behind the pump house. So certain was I of seeing Eric’s burly shape that it took me several seconds to take in the long, satiny black hair flowing over the slim shoulders as the person bent over to give the dog a big hug.

  “Teht’aa, I thought you were Eric.” I glanced nervously around. “Where is he?” I blurted ou
t before realizing I’d given myself away. I’d never confided in her how much I missed her father.

  She straightened. “He never arrived. I guess something must’ve come up. But what does it matter to you?”

  I felt disappointment wash over me as she eyed me suspiciously.

  “Oh, it doesn’t matter at all. I just thought it was him driving the Jeep. That’s all.”

  “Nope. It’s all mine until he gets home.” She flashed an expanse of pearly white before turning serious. “I wanted to see how you were doing.” She paused. “You had me very worried yesterday.”

  “As you can see, I’m okay. I guess I kind of went overboard yesterday, didn’t I?”

  But afraid she’d come to lecture me, I didn’t wait for an answer. Instead I turned and tripped up the stairs to the front door, hoping she would take this as a sign that I wanted to be left alone. However, when I turned around and saw her standing forlornly by her father’s vehicle, her beautiful face creased in concern, I felt so awful, I invited her in for a coffee.

  Chapter

  Twelve

  "I see my dad was here recently,” Teht’aa called out from the front of the house.

  Certain I’d heard incorrectly, I shouted from the kitchen where I was making coffee, “What did you say?”

  “I said, you must’ve seen my dad recently.” Her shout was accompanied by the sound of approaching footsteps echoing along the hall’s creaky wooden floors.

  “Of course I haven’t. You know that,” I replied.

  “How would I know? Neither of you ever tell me anything.” Despite her tone, she was smiling as she stepped onto the kitchen’s worn linoleum floor, which should probably be replaced one of these days.