by Lou Allin
“Wha?” His head lolled on the pillow, chiselled jaw slack, drool ribboning from his open mouth.
She pulled his arm and felt a slight resistance, a good sign. “Get up, or I’ll have to drag you down the stairs.”
Suddenly he lurched over the side of the bed and vomited into a pair of sheepskin slippers. She held his shoulders to keep his windpipe free. Then he was on his knees, and she was urging him out of the room. When he fainted on the stairs, she blocked his fall and eased his awkward weight down to the living room, wincing with each bump. Like most women contemplating the ravages of age, never had she imagined gravity as her best friend.
The air was finally safe. She sensed the difference and breathed deeply, forcing every molecule of oxygen to recharge her blood. Twenty-five more feet to the kitchen. With her knees trembling like Olive Oyl’s, sweat poured down her face and trickled along her back. Thankful for the polished oak floors that Maureen kept slick as a bowling alley, she yanked Mutt by his shoulders the last yards to the porch, bumped him over the threshold, and placed his head on a throw pillow from a wicker settee. Her lungs were wheezing with exertion. Each muscle flamed with lactic acid, and her lumbar region gave a warning twinge. Her head felt balloonish, detached from her body, and a troubling nausea roamed her stomach. A reaction to the gas or trauma? Every minute counted now. The temperature had risen a few degrees, but unclothed, he was in serious danger of hypothermia. Having saved him once, was she placing him in more danger?
The brisk wind swirled dead leaves around the yard in mini-tornados as a car sped by on the road, leaving a cloud of dust. She ran back for an afghan from the sofa, then for insurance, grabbed a heavy canvas coat from a Victorian hall tree and covered him. Still, the porch floorboards were cold. She rolled him onto a dog blanket snatched from the van and placed him in the recovery position.
Choking back a sob, she hunted for the cell phone in her console. A chemical taste coated the back of her mouth, and her nostrils were scorched with acid. For a moment she thought she was seeing double then realized that her glasses had fogged with sweat. Shoving them back onto her head, she squinted as she dialled 911. Driving Mutt to the hospital, even if she could get him into her vehicle, wasn’t going to revive him any faster. In her frantic state, she’d probably land them both in a watery ditch on the swamp flats.
“A man on Edgewater Road has propane gas poisoning. Or carbon monoxide, whatever. The address is 1565.”
There was a pause. “Which Edgewater Road do you mean?”
Belle rapped her temple. As a realtor, she should have remembered another Edgewater Road near Long Lake.
“Sorry. Up the west side of Lake Wapiti.”
“Is he conscious?”
“He came to for a moment. Now he’s totally out. Breathing but not responding.”
The female voice was deliberate and calming, part of the job. “Keep him warm. Stay on the line.” She put Belle on hold for thirty seconds, an eternity. “A unit’s just leaving Radar Road after a false alarm. Arrival should be in twenty minutes. Have you turned off all the appliances? An electrical spark could be dangerous. And I hope no one’s smoking.”
Shivering from fear more than cold as she hung up, Belle gathered herself around Mutt to share her warmth and form an unusual Pietà. She held his hand, compact and artistic, monitoring his stuttering pulse. His face was too relaxed, flat-featured. Gentle slaps or shakes failed to bring him around. She lifted one flaccid lid and saw his eye rolled back like the baby elk’s. “Help is coming, Mutt. But please talk to me. What about Lucy? Will she marry that policeman, or is she just pumping him for information?” Crazy ideas like driving a mile down to the Proctors, where she knew asthmatic Joyce kept bottled oxygen, crossed her feverish mind.
For some reason, singing seemed like a good idea, and she began a soft version of “I Dreamed I Dwelt in Marble Halls”. When the thought of a mausoleum rose, she switched to “The Minstrel Boy” then to “The Wearing of the Green”, some of her mother’s Bing Crosby favourites. With his Irish background, Mutt might be familiar with the melodies. It was common knowledge that coma patients responded to touches and sound.
On the lake, a cigarette boat surged by, leaving a wake of rolling waves pounding the pebble beach. Lakefront was so picturesque. Everyone wanted to live there but usually couldn’t imagine the pitiless nature of high water, especially when roused by wind. She realized that her mind was rambling again.
Soon the welcome siren of the ambulance punctuated the air, rising and falling with the undulating hills and curves. The vehicle slowed, turned into the yard and backed up toward the porch. A wiry young man with a pencil-thin moustache and a short blonde woman, both in trim navy uniforms, hustled out and rolled a gurney out of the rear.
“Thank God,” Belle called, then eased away and hovered at the perimeter, watching every move as an omen.
The young man readied the stretcher, and the woman peered into Mutt’s eyes with a penlight, next listening to his heart and firming her mouth at the results. What did that mean? Could he have damaged his cardiac system? In quick, efficient motions, an oxygen mask was affixed. Only then did Belle notice the bluish tinge of his skin. “His face is so . . . I mean I thought that—”
“Cyanosis. That cherry-red reaction is very rare.” She listened to his heart again. “Have the defibrillator at the ready, Jim.”
Trying to tune out the scolding chitter of an affronted squirrel in the cedars, Belle stood by, hugging herself. In the distance, thunder rolled, and a fat raindrop splashed onto her face. “Will he be all right? I mean will he have any serious damage? I don’t know anything about gas poisoning.”
The woman touched her arm, sending comfort with warm brown eyes. “It’s roulette with these cases. Pray, if it’s your habit. Good thoughts always help.”
With Mutt blanketed in the ambulance, the paramedic jotted particulars on a form, then said with a polite frown, “Sorry to ask, but is there any reason to think that this was a suicide attempt, ma’am?”
“Usually people use cars or ovens, don’t they?” Belle folded her arms in a defensive posture, not sure whether to be insulted for Mutt or confused. “It was an accident with the furnace. A leak or something.” But knowing how regular Maureen was about maintenance, that made little sense. And despite his devastating loss, the idea that Mutt would or even could fool with a furnace to turn a house into a gas chamber was ludicrous. Why hadn’t the alarm worked?
“Best get someone out here right away to fix it, then. You don’t want a fire on top of this.”
Belle felt a flash of heat across her brow, despite the cold, wet morning. A fire? She’d only turned off the main switch. What now? Follow Mutt to the hospital? Not without calling Campeau Heating. He couldn’t return to the house until repairs were made. A crash of lightning brought a deluge of rain as she ran for the porch. And on top of a headache that was turning her brain into a clothes dryer filled with running shoes, she had a client due in twenty minutes. Quickly she dialled the office and told Yoyo to apologize and ask the woman to wait. Since she had an extra key for the house, she went to the basement to hit the main furnace breaker then locked the doors behind her.
In the habit of summer storms, the rain had stopped as quickly as it had started, leaving a smear of blackflies on the windshield. Halfway to town, Belle remembered that she had left the windows open. Changing lanes with this distracting thought, she was nearly creamed by a tandem of pulpwood.
Her arrival at the office after twenty-five minutes of low-level flying found Yoyo doing her nails, pots of primer and polish laid out with orange sticks and files, a major production. To Belle, nails were a tool, not an adornment that ate up time and broke when opening a jug of washer fluid at minus thirty. Living in the north, she’d abandoned fashion and beauty for clean and warm and had no idea where her iron lived. She hung up her trench coat and got a coffee. Maddened with worry about Mutt, she felt like talking. Yoyo didn’t need a long-winded history about he
r relationship with Gary, but she could provide some commiseration about today’s disaster. Came with the job, as Miriam knew.
“That appointment rescheduled for tomorrow anyway, so no sweat,” Yoyo said, peering at her. “You don’t look so hot, pardon me for saying. Time of the month?”
“I wish.”
Hearing the scenario, Yoyo put her hand to her mouth, then realized it was fresh with paint and began waving it dry. Her round, bottle-green eyes saucered, the light brown tapered brows shaped like tiny rice-paddy hats. “My cousin went on a winter camping trip near Elliot Lake. Ran a propane stove in the tent and never woke up. Left three kids under ten. His widow should have sued the ass off the manufacturer. Sure would in the States. Canadians hate to rock the boat.”
Biting off a patriotic retort because she half-agreed, Belle recalled canoe trips where she had cooked inside a tent amid torrents of rain. “I hope my friend’ll be okay.”
“Sure he will, honey. Big strong men always are.” She flexed a mock muscle.
Yes and no, Belle thought. Once her father had been a powerhouse who used to carry his daughter on his shoulders. Age asserted its dominion, even though it beat the alternative. She dialled Campeau with a pitiful helpless-woman tale and received a solemn promise to meet her later at the house.
Around noon, they ordered pizza, agreeing to share a medium shrimp scampi. Seafood was brain food, high-fat mozzarella aside. Yoyo washed down a bevy of vitamins with her large chocolate milk. “Folic acid,” she said, holding up a pill bottle. “Can you believe that it cuts the risk of Down Syndrome by eighty per cent? This little one’s getting kid-glove care.” On her desk was a copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting.
As they munched, Yoyo presented the monthly figures, looking good for a change with the freshening summer sales. Interest rates were low, and diversification of the local economy had fuelled a demand for housing. Belle had finally paid back the temporary loan she’d taken from herself to rebuild the dock, a dubious business practice. “So compared to last year, you’re up a couple thousand this month. Do I get a raise?”
Replying with the same bland non-committal expression she gave Miriam at that nagging question, Belle turned to the wall calendar. How well she knew the long lean months of fall and winter, feeling like a stunted northern red squirrel husbanding nuts. With her luck lately, she’d forget where she left them. She watched Yoyo re-file the material, a slight pout on her heart-shaped face. “How’s your mom doing?” How rude that she hadn’t asked, as if no one else had problems.
Yoyo tapped her sharp nails on the desk in the rhythm of a snare drum. “She paid her fine with bingo winnings, the rascal. Runs in the family, I guess. But given her health, this won’t go on much longer.”
At the coffee maker, Belle stopped in mid-pour. “Is she ill?” With that wicked cane, the woman had looked capable of fending off a rutting moose.
“Naw. It’s immaculate degeneration. Those dark glasses. She’s losing her vision.”
“Imm . . .” Belle gave a small gasp, blinking aside the annoying floaters that had begun to plague her, a sign of aging, the cocky young optometrist had said. Helen Keller aside, blindness seemed the cruellest fate. “I’ve heard of that. There’s no treatment?”
Yoyo’s padded shoulders sagged. Today she wore an imitation blue leather skirt and top, silver epaulets and a zipper up the front of the jacket, at the crest of the décolletage instead of an inch below. Perhaps impending motherhood was turning her from coquette to Madonna. “They have a treatment for the wet kind. That’s hers. But Ontario is one of the few provinces that won’t pay the shot. Too expensive or something. How much is your eyesight worth?”
“Cheap bastards.” Belle had seen American ads trolling in major newspapers. Focussing on MRIs, virtual colonoscopies, and other scans that often took months to schedule, they encouraged wealthier Canadians to jump the queue.
When Belle called later that afternoon, the nurse at Emerg related only that Mutt was being seen. Given her appointment with the furnace technician, visiting him was out of the question. Belle hustled home at four, meeting the Campeau cube truck at the mailboxes and letting it play stalking horse for outgoing traffic. Maybe Miss Liberty was heading this way. She gave an evil chuckle. Jeep vs. truck today at the demo derby. Place your bets.
The truck slowed, as if to double-check the address on the green metal sign, then pulled in. She introduced herself to Colin, according to his name tag, who carried a heavy toolbox as he eyeballed the house with approval. “I see all the windows are open. Smart move. I don’t want to walk into no Texas-style gas chamber. Good reason never to smoke on the job.” His grey eyes crinkled at his joke.
“How often does this happen?” Of the three central heating systems, propane seemed cleaner than oil and certainly less expensive than electricity.
The grizzled man rolled a toothpick around his mouth with machine-tooled precision. “Over three hundred people a year die in the U.S. and Canada from carbon monoxide poisoning. Boats are a real killer.”
“Boats?”
As a guttural roar assaulted their eardrums, they turned toward the lake, where a jet-ski was doing doughnuts as mindlessly as a ladybug in a lampshade. Colin added, “Cabin cruisers. Gets a bit chilly on August nights, and on goes the furnace. Faulty ventilation’s a killer. No regulations up here.”
After Colin had gone inside, she roamed the gardens that had won Maureen first prize in the Skead Horticultural Tour. The rose beds were producing shoots, and by the house a delicate clematis had begun its shy drift up the lattice. The tulip and daffodil bulbs had peaked and should be deadheaded.
As she sat on the porch wondering what to do next, Belle pulled out the cell phone and called Emerg again. This time she was told that Malcolm was still in critical condition and had been moved to Laurentian Hospital. Hadn’t he regained consciousness? A pause. “I’m sorry. That’s all I can tell you. Are you a relative?”
“No, I—” Then they were disconnected. She heard a croak and looked up to see Raven, the Trickster in Ojibwa mythology, hang-gliding the thermals and playing with a fellow bird. Normally she enjoyed the antics of the bird that amused itself, but all she could think of was Mutt. This sounded bad. She should call someone, but whom?
Twenty minutes later, Colin came out and walked to the side of the house, where ten-foot grey-green junipers, mugho pines and climbing roses lay in dense beds. He hunted one way, then another, tipped back his faded cap and scratched his head. “Where’s the damn exhaust? Plants are so thick, I can’t see a thing.”
Belle laughed. “I think it’s behind the lattice. The owner wants an authentic log-cabin look.”
They inspected a squared box set out from the wall and floored with gravel. Inside were the clothes dryer vent and another polystyrene pipe. Colin unscrewed the lattice panel, brushing aside dead leaves from the Virginia creeper. Though the pipe angled downward, it seemed blocked. As his fingers probed, material sifted to the ground. Shaking his head, he rooted manfully with a straightened coat hanger and began clearing the pipe.
Curious, she joined him, wrinkling her brow. “Yuck. What is that stuff, and more to the point, how did it get there?”
He held small shards of what looked like cotton, paper, leaves and pink fibre insulation. “Mouse nest. Little buggers half-wrecked my RV once. Transferred the insulation to the kitchen drawers for their litter. They can find the smallest hole.” Then, with a grunt of disgust, he flung the material into the forsythia bushes.
“I have a propane furnace too. Maybe I should check it.” She shivered to think how easily a tiny creature could imperil lives.
“You’re okay as long as you’re using it regular. The mouse takes the hint. How about this place? Folks been on vacation?”
“The family left over a month ago. Someone else moved in, but it’s been very warm until last night. If it got below twenty, the furnace probably came on.”
He cleaned his hands with a towelette from h
is toolbox. “It’s unusual, but if Mickey, or rather Minnie, was a six-pack short of a two-four, there’d be time enough to build a nest.”
“So is the house safe now?” When Mutt was released from hospital, and surely he would be, he had to go somewhere. How long did it take to recover from gas poisoning? Should she ask him to stay with her?
Colin opened a pack of gum and offered her a chew, but she shook her head. “I’ll clamp on a grid to prevent this from happening again. Then you’re off to the races.”
She had a final thought. “What about the propane alarm?”
He shrugged. “Dead batteries. I replaced them.”
As he prepared to leave later, Belle gave him a cheque for a hundred and fifty dollars. “Got any more of that mesh?” She’d fix her own vent.
With a wink, he clipped off a square for her and saluted. Belle stood in the driveway. No time now to drive back to town to the hospital, especially when Mutt might still be unconscious. But his family should be told. Sadly, he’d never mentioned them, except to say that they’d refused to come to his wedding. Where did they live? Hadn’t he said that they had a cottage in Muskoka? Blowing out a breath, she checked her watch. Six. Freya would be waiting. At the very least, she should give the house a quick search for an address book.
First she closed the windows, then went to the den, where on a large walnut table, he had set up a spiffy green iMac and a printer. A couple of DVDs read Wellesley Street Whistler, dated early in the year. Over on a roll-top desk were a few small field notebooks of Gary’s as well as a yellow pad with what she imagined were Mutt’s observations about the research. Determined to think positively, she gathered them up. On returning to consciousness, he might appreciate having them. Where would he keep his contact numbers? In his computer? She tried to boot up, but it was password-protected. Luckily, the desk drawer held an old address book with Gary’s idiosyncratic angular writing. Her name wasn’t in there, but why would it have been? In the M’s, she found a Megs Malloy in Hamilton.