by Lou Allin
Loaded with bags of steaming styrofoam boxes, Belle climbed the ramp to the home and discarded her icy boots as a sign suggested. A tiny bichon frisé trotted up warily, pet of the activity director. “Hi, Puffball,” she said, giving his well-clipped white fur a pat. “Watch those feet.” Stray shoes shuffling his way had taught the dog to be wary of life at ground level. At the front desk, Cherie smiled at her. One of the friendliest nurses, this curly blonde powerplant never seemed tired.
“Lunch day? Aren’t you a sweetheart,” she said as she filed some charts.
“So how’s he doing?” Belle asked, a prayer on her lips.
Cherie shrugged a smile. “The same. Asking for you since breakfast. Knows when it’s Tuesday, but always thinks you won’t come.”
“And I’ve never missed in two years. Are his feet still swollen?”
“I’m afraid so. The doctor increased the Lasix dosage. Could be his heart. No other problems. He likes his food as well as ever. Do you want a follow-up call next visit?”
“Might be a good idea. Thanks, Cherie.” In search of a fork and bib, Belle toured the small dining room where several patients waited for lunch, exchanging a few words with Billy Kidd, a blind man dressed to dapper perfection, and waving at familiar ladies (always so many more ladies). The saddest group sat docile in gerry chairs, heads lolling. They were fed by the staff, one of the time-consuming attentions which accounted for the monstrous monthly sum per patient. Even so, over a ward fee of $900.00 to her father’s private rate of $1,700, the government added a similar contribution. Staggering numbers, but a friend of Belle’s had reported in tears that her father might have to pay $60,000 a year to put her mother in a nursing home in Vermont. Maybe overtaxed Canucks should “se taire,” or keep quiet.
Down the hall she could hear his television reporting the local news. Sudbury’s first murder of the year had occurred: a ninth grader had left her newborn in a cardboard box. She had wrapped the child in a flowered nightie and pinned on a note, “I love you, precious” when she placed the box beside a dumpster in a -25° night. “Precious” had been found by two schoolboys the next day. The mother waited under the protection of the Children’s Aid until a court decided if charges should be laid. Children having children, Belle sighed.
As she entered his room, her father pointed at her from his gerry chair. Its locking table prevented him from falling, a necessary but cruel protection against the danger of a broken hip, but he hated it. “I thought you weren’t coming,” he said. His thick white hair was fresh-cut and his clothes clean, matching blue shirt and practical navy work pants good for one thousand washes. She arranged the bib and set out his meal, filling a plastic glass with water from the narrow bathroom. The builders hadn’t anticipated the problems of the elderly. How the attendants manoeuvered him attested to their logistical wizardry with a Hoyer lift.
While he enjoyed his shrimp and she made messy inroads on the chili dog, Belle leafed through the Enquirer. Jackie O was still getting headlines even after answering the last trumpet. If it could happen to her . . . Belle probed behind her right ear where she had been having some discomfort. No lump yet. She checked discreetly to see how her father was faring since it wasn’t wise to chat with him while he ate. Coordinating breathing, chewing and swallowing became difficult after a series of small strokes; aspirated food was a geriatric nightmare. He cooperated with her, but with the nurses he was bossy and demanding, reverting to the “bad boy” of his childhood. However, he seemed more “with it” today. “Good shrimp. Good shrimp,” he nodded. “Pie and ice cream?” His eyes darted back and forth to the box on the dresser.
“Sure, as soon as you’re finished,” she agreed. Shortly after, she replaced the remains of the meal with the dessert. “Hey, you’re in luck. Cherry pie. Remember how Mother used to make it? What a dope I was to lose her pastry recipe.” Then she went to the dining room and returned with his tea.
“How are your feet?” She looked sadly at the swollen pair.
“OK, OK,” he insisted. “Can we go out for lunch next week?”
She didn’t like to believe that he would not walk again. Just getting him to medical tests was a bitter challenge, weather aside. A recent chest x-ray had been a logistical horror story, though he had tried his best. “Well, there’s still lots of snow left. And you would have to walk to the van.”
“I can walk. I’ve never let you down yet, have I?” he asked. And she felt her eyes tear and pretended to look out the window at a chickadee.
“No, you certainly haven’t.” She shifted topics. “Do you know that this has been the worst winter in the last century and a half? That means that no other Palmer ever in Canada has seen one as bad.” He liked to boast about his family emigrating from Yorkshire in 1840. In Toronto she had taken him to Prospect Cemetery to find the grave of his grandfather, a corporal in the New York 22nd Cavalry during the Civil War. Many Canadians had gone south to fight for glory or purpose or something absent in the peace-loving North. When her father had first arrived at the nursing home, he had had a black roommate, to whom he had proudly related his grandfather’s service.
“Oh, I saw Love on the Dole last night. Remember that one?” She knew he loved talking about his working days.
He brightened, sipping his tea, which she had cooled first with an ice cube from his bedside pitcher. “That’s an old one. Deborah Kerr. Before the war, right?” He scratched his head. “No, 1941. Brits were at war, maybe not the Yanks yet. I saw every picture ever made back then.” When the television news ended, Belle rounded up the detritus and left him anticipating his afternoon soaps and after-dinner favourites, Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy. He had been interested to learn that Alex Trebek had come from Sudbury.
On her way out, she leaned over the high desk at the nursing station. “You know most of the doctors in town, Cherie. What can you tell me about Dr. Monroe?”
“Are you taking your father there?” She emphasized the last word with a gasp.
“No, it’s a business matter. I met him the other day and had a few questions.”
Cherie leaned over the desk and glanced around. “A woman in my nursing class dated him, if that’s a polite word. After they broke up, she had some pretty harsh words. Hypocrite, liar, that kind of tone. His qualifications maybe?” She paused and looked sceptical. “Could be spite, though. She went to Victoria after that. Wanted a change.” She snorted, pointing at the snowdrifts outside. “Guess she got it.”
“Wouldn’t his credentials have been checked?”
“In those days? He came here back when the place was desperate for doctors. You know the North. Always on the short end. Glad to get what we could.” She lowered her voice until Belle had to lean perilously. “But don’t mention this, will you? Not too ethical of me to blab.”
“Of course not. And thanks for keeping an eye on the old man.” Belle went out into the sunlight that had replaced the morning fog. Behind her in the nursing home, every day was the same, just like in her fish tank. They did their best, God bless them, she thought, getting into the van and turning on the radio as Oprah’s voice beamed out, greeting her fans in Northern Ontario in connection with a contest to win a trip to her show in Chicago. The country station plunged on. “Last time I saw him, he was Greyhound bound,” Dottie West sang as Belle blinked into the brightness.
As she returned home, the plow sat in the same spot. This time the driver had been joined by a front end loader large enough to shift the Skydome. Likely laughing at his friend’s poor driving, the loader man had ignored the banking and slipped off at the same spot. Megalon sent to rescue Godzilla and not a brain cell between them. Strolling neighbours were pointing and laughing, while the men hunched morosely in their cabs. What kind of unimaginable bigger brother would have to be summoned now? The churned-up land looked like Guadalcanal.
TEN
It was time, past time really, to search Jim’s camp. Belle checked her calendar. Clear for tomorrow. Perhaps if the weather held
, she could go. She filed some papers, made a list of places to visit which included the land registry office, and sent two new bills. And three reminders. And one downright threatening, well, sort of, letter to a man who owed her over two thousand dollars for her appraisal of his twenty-unit apartment. Her “1001 Letters for All Occasions” software had seven inventive sequences of seven dunning letters, like the biblical seventy times seven. At first, assume that the person had merely overlooked the bill (reminder stage); then get the facts about why payment had not been forthcoming (problems stage); in the crisis stage, hint gently that it was to the miscreant’s credit rating that he pay, suggesting legal intervention only if all else failed. In Belle’s experience, professionals who baked in Jamaica over the winter and paved their double-wide drives in salmon stones were the worst. She typed “Dear Mr. Bowman: It has been ninety days since we . . .” Too bad she couldn’t hire Jimmy Cagney as a collection agent, someone to rub a grapefruit into the client’s face, or maybe a rutabaga.
Bored by her prosaic prose, she turned up the news on the radio and flipped off the computer. A bad storm was blowing down from the northwest, the worst direction. Thunder Bay had two feet of snow, and the blizzard was charging through the Sault, closing the Trans-Canada route. She tapped Miriam on the shoulder. “Bad storm. Better get home while you can.”
They trundled out together, pulling scarves up and wool hats down against the gusting white swirls. Five quick inches had fallen by the time Belle hit the Jem Mart for the obligatory cream, bread and eggs, along with a couple of packages of Kraft Dinner (50 cents—bargoon!). A Score bar jumped into her basket, then another. Her university roommate Pamela had always said that every now and then, everyone needed a score. True then, true today, she thought, crunching one for solace as the snow began to cover the vehicles outside. “Another bloody dump of snow,” a grizzled man in a snowmobile suit grumbled, tearing Nevada tickets in a mindless routine as he stuffed the unlucky remainders into the trash. “This winter’s the limit. I’ve been here sixty years and never seen the like. Can’t even afford Ft. Myers with the dollar in the toilet.” Then Belle remembered her fish. If they really were in for it, she had better stockpile feeders for Hannibal.
She reached the pet store at the mall just as “Mrs. Popeye” was turning the closed sign. The old girl was a living Victorian etching, impervious to medical advances; forever wheezing, with lively brown eyes pressed into her face like raisins into a cookie, she bullied her teenage clerks like an old pirate. “Do you want some feeders, my girl? You’re just in time. We are closing early with this terrible storm. The usual dozen?” She stroked an overstuffed Siamese which homesteaded by the cash register, then rocked on her swollen legs as a coughing fit shook her. A few whiffs from the oxygen bottle clipped to her hip stopped the spasms. “Mother’s milk,” she snuffed.
Belle paused to calculate. “Make it two. I probably won’t be back in town for a few days.”
“That’s a good idea. We are running low, and no shipment will leave Toronto in this weather,” the old woman added as she netted the merry victims, all anticipating a private bowl, a modest sprinkle of gravel, plenty of tasty pellets and a little porcelain “No Fishing” sign. Poor babies, Belle thought, if only you knew. She accepted the bag and couldn’t believe that she asked if they had any new Orandas.
“Some beauties. Golden pom poms.” Mrs. P pointed to a small tank.
Belle choked back a sob. They were tempting, even at $39.99. Words like “grotesque” and “bizarre” did them pale justice. Huge, porcine goldfish with bulging sides and gaping mouths, scales of a gleaming copper rare to the aquarium, they sported a floppy pom pom over each eye, like chubby cheerleaders who had plastered their decorations to their faces. Just in time, Belle recalled the tortuous deaths of her own Orandas, Beanbag and Ochi, hellish red streaks eating them alive. Her PH balance mastery was still in question. Orandaless but proud of her self-discipline, she returned to the parking lot, trying to remember where she had left the van. When she saw it, her attention fell on the wheelwells, clogged with crusted ice and grit jamming the tires and inviting steering problems. A few tentative pokes with her boot toe did nothing. The ice was too hard. So she backed up to the wells and aimed strong heel kicks karate fashion. At last the mess fell free, but at a painful cost. She winced as she tried the key. Was the lock frozen again? Then a thin voice screeched through the wind. “What are you doing to my van? I’m calling security.” Belle spotted a tall figure in a embroidered parka turn and trudge back to the mall. In her embarrassment, she recognized that her own van was one row farther down.
Her foot throbbing to the sounds of “Heat Wave” on the radio (very funny, guys), she wheeled out onto Lasalle Blvd, skidding on the greasy surface. How many words did the Inuit have for snow? How many for the sounds of a storm, the shriek of a wind which would freeze skin in thirty seconds and send weak branches crashing onto roofs, slicing off shingles? Just before the airport hill, Belle saw flashing blue lights, a comforting sight, and nestled herself in behind the plow, its mammoth wings clearing the way like the arm of a merciful God. For once she didn’t mind turtling behind since the flat, open stretch past the airport was famous for blinding whiteouts and head-on collisions. The radio reported that a ten-car pile-up near Whitefish had closed 17 East. Three were dead and many injured. When the plow detoured into the airport, Belle floundered along until she reached her own road. She stopped at the mailboxes to sight down the most dangerous hill, covered a good eight inches deep, pristine and untouched by tread. Turning off the radio to concentrate, Belle steered down the steep slope, wary of the treacherous ditching on either side. It was important to take the big dip by Philosopher’s Pond at top speed to make the grade up the other side. Anyone stuck at the bottom, at the bend of a paper clip, would stay there until the next thaw. As for the rest of the trip, Belle’s strategy was to hug the right and pray that no one would be coming around the tight and often obscured turns.
This time fortune had been with her. Belle whispered a special hosanna as she glided into the driveway, then tensed at the confusing sight of a dark form against a snowbank near the propane tank. It was Freya, still and limp, a bright stain beneath her head. How had she got out? Belle knelt in the swirling snow, smoothing the soft fur, following the shallow rise of the chest. One eye was barely open as the dog tried to lift her head, a torn ear pricking up feebly in response. A quick assessment showed the head wound as the only apparent damage. Nearby lay a shovel used for tossing ashes on the drive, its metal edge darkened. Back inside the house, Belle grabbed a sheet which she used to drag the dog to the van. No way could she lift nearly ninety pounds. A piece of plywood from the junk pile served as a ramp. The driveway was badly drifted, and there was no sign of Ed’s plow truck. He had probably come to fetch it home for a quick morning start. As for the road back, Belle didn’t allow herself to imagine its condition. All she knew was that Freya needed help.
After tucking several blankets around the dog, Belle dialed from her cellular phone, glad that Shana lived on the clinic premises. On the tenth ring, a tired voice answered, “Petville Animal Clinic.”
“It’s Belle. Freya’s been hit on the head. I’m bringing her,” she gasped, glancing at the quiet form in the back.
Shana had no patience for useless questions. “Is she conscious?”
“Barely. Slipping in and out.”
“Keep her warm. And for God’s sake, be careful. It’s pure hell on the roads. What if you have an accident in the middle of nowhere?”
“Don’t jinx me. See you in an hour with luck.”
Back down the road Belle drove, side-slipping, glad to have her own grooves to follow, taking the hills at crazy speeds, hardly caring if she were in the middle or not. “Hang on, pal,” she called. “You did your job. I’ll do mine.”
Battling thick gusts of whiteouts through unprotected spots, Belle inched along the flats. Night vision problems had been plaguing her lately. Ten or fifteen feet
of road at a time emerged as she rounded corners, skewing dangerously. At a particularly bad stretch across the swamp, she forgot the icy patches beneath. The van tried valiantly to correct, but the steering was too tight for Indianapolis 500 hairpins. Pivoting 180 degrees, it skidded fifty feet, and brushed through alders at the edge of the road, back wheels miring in the soft muck several yards from a culvert. The jolt was kind. Belle wasn’t hurt, but it wasn’t likely anyone would be along for hours, not until the plow had passed. The machine near the airport belonged to the city; a separate provider took care of Edgewater Road and might not arrive until morning. She touched the cellular phone. What good would that do? The police wouldn’t put an injured pet at the top of the priority list with serious accidents all over town. Oh, she would be safe. Every Northerner carried an emergency kit: blanket, matches, chocolate and candles. But that wouldn’t help Freya. Belle crawled back to stroke the dog, noticing that her eyes were closed and her breathing fast and noisy.
She struggled out of the vehicle and squinted painfully into the whitelash, tears freezing on her cheeks, her fists pounding the top of the van. Then, even over the rush of the storm, the shrill cry of the wind through the dry reeds, the purr of a motor met her ears. Standing in the middle of the road, waving her arms, she hoped it was travelling slow enough to stop. A green Jimmy materialized out of snow and skidded to the side. The door slammed, and a man in a huge sheepskin coat approached her, shielding his face against the gusts. His voice was calm and familiar. “You look like you can use some help. How long have you been here?”
Belle peered in astonishment. “Franz, is it?” she said. “Whatever angel brought you?” She pulled him over to the van.
What a miracle to have the strength of a man, Belle thought as she watched him pat the dog, whisper to Freya to gain her confidence and then effortlessly lift her into the back of the Jimmy, covering her gently with a red Trapper point blanket. The four-wheeler, with its high clearance, made an effortless path through the snow, cruising up the final killer hill as if it were a parking lot. Franz turned up the heater and glanced back at the dog. “You’ll soon warm up. What happened?”