by Lou Allin
With a gulp, she came to the day that he had found the dead baby elk, the first albino he had seen. “No sign of the parents in the herd I observed near Pine Mountain. No obvious damage on the body. Slightly underweight. Dead less than a day,” he had written. Sad, but exciting. Question marks appeared, and a word was repeated, but the ink was blurred. She squinted, cleaned her reading glasses. Test? What was the word? Bent? No, benthic. Then benthos. There it was again. She saw that Mutt had jotted it on his yellow lined pad, along with a “Min? Go back?” This made her sit up and reach for a drink. Had he been able to return to the Ministry as he’d intended? Most important, when he came to, would he recall the thrusts of his analysis?
Nearly eleven, an hour past her bedtime. But she couldn’t resist the puzzle. Freya rolled her head up and gave her a sharp look as Belle levered herself out of the waterbed. Downstairs in the computer room, she searched her Oxford dictionary but couldn’t find either “benthos” or “benthic”. Scanning past Benedictine, Bengal and Bennett Buggy, a car pulled by horses, named after the Depression-era Prime Minister, she stopped and gave herself a neural rap “upside the head”. Though at first, it might have been a logical assumption, “Ben” was not a person. As she thought about booting up and accessing Google, vampiric winds were shaking the ancient lines that linked Alexander Graham Bell to Bill Gates, slower than molasses in January, as her mother used to say. She’d use the high-speed access at the office.
As Belle turned in, she shivered and got up to close her window. Temperatures had dropped to less than five degrees as a sudden Arctic blast from the northwest rushed across the lake like a killer tornado. Too late now to cover her plants.
THIRTEEN
The unseasonably cold weather had merged with the warming lake to brew up a pea-soup fog the next morning. Belle could barely see twenty feet as she inched along Edgewater Road, braking for the occasional stupefied grouse freezing at her approach, then making a roadrunner dash. No letup until Radar Road, she knew from experience. Planes were grounded, the radio said. Then she switched it off to concentrate on driving, appreciating the fog lamps’ eerie glow. As she rounded the corner at a stretch bordering a swamp, she slowed and blinked to appreciate the rare moment.
Standing beside a cedar log was a majestic blue heron, cloaked like an exiled king to a romantic eye, but in all practicality, merely seeking a frog. Solitary diners often guarding their territory, they became more social in heronries during egg-laying time, when they built their massive twig nests on dead spars. Though the majority of young herons failed to reach their first birthday, survivors were often good for over twenty years. Perhaps this one had lived in the area longer than she had. She recalled lines from Charles Sangster’s ponderous “The St. Lawrence and the Saguenay”. “All night the Fisher spears his finny prey;/ The piney flambeaux reddening the deep . . . Like grotesque banditti they boldly sweep/ Upon the startled prey, and stab them while they sleep.” As if reading her intrusive thoughts, the heron ruffled his feathers and lifted off into the haze on purple wings, wispy streamers in his wake. Only then did she notice that behind a flattened stand of scrub willow, a vehicle lay wheels-up in the shallow water twenty feet from the road.
Abruptly, she pulled over and punched on her flashers. The last thing she needed was a collision. Should she use her cell phone to summon help or wade in like a maritime Samaritan? Seconds counted. Plunging into the shallow, stinking muck, she winced at soaking her sneakers, pushing aside the burred grasses which tugged at her pants like tiny goblins. Small hillocks provided purchase for marsh marigolds, their cheerful yellow-globe spring announcements long gone. The icy water crept to mid-thigh. A splash made her yelp before she saw the dark olive box of an alarmed turtle scrabbling over a log. Small comfort that Ontario had only one poisonous snake, the Massasauga rattler, a diminutive creature located farther south. Her shoes sucked mud with each step. For purchase, she grabbed at a sturdy clump of reeds, cutting her hand. Sedges have edges. Closing in, she recognized the red Jeep. Miss Liberty, an accident whose number had been called at road bingo. Would the door open, or had the crash bent the frame? For an irrational and guilty moment, Belle wondered if wishful thinking had become reality.
Visibility was poor, but the Maglite in her van would have confused the issue with its reflections. Belle glanced up. Amid dull patches of fog, the insistent sun was clawing itself a window. In the front seat, a young girl about her size hung upside down, still in harness, long honey hair trailing in the water, her pale, expressionless face inches from drowning. An eerie glow came from the dashboard, green footlights to a drama. Wrenching open the door on the fifth pull, Belle tugged on the belts, trying to find the clasp. The device refused to release its burden.
Damn it. Why mmmmmeeeee? Her teeth chattering like the taps of a three-toed woodpecker, she slogged back to the van and seized a Swiss army knife from the glove compartment. Back at the Jeep, standing on ice-block legs, she braced the girl with one arm and sliced with the other. As the body came free, Belle supported her against the side of the vehicle. In this awkward embrace, she felt the beating of another heart. The cold water shocked the girl back to consciousness, her sparkly-shadowed eyelids fluttering as she kicked out in confusion. “Huh? Where am I? I’m friggin’ freezing!”
“No place you want to stay. Let’s go to my van.” Belle helped her to the road, marching together like Napoleon’s defeated army, crushing the fragile pink, hexagonal flowers of the bog laurel, and eased her into the rear cargo area, covering her with the handy dog blanket.
She could hear small whimpers as she called 911, and her heart raced. The girl might have suffered internal injuries. Pulling her from the swamp had been a calculated risk the same as rescuing someone from a burning car. If she had vertebral problems, would Belle face a lawsuit? So much for the Golden Rule.
Before launching into a lecture about driving habits, she’d better check for injuries, ask a few definitive questions. Belle moved into the back of the van beside the girl, trying to ignore the organic goop that coated the carpeting. She tried to wiggle her toes, but the effort was painful. Flicking on the overhead light, she looked at the girl, now strangely silent. “What’s your name? How do you feel?”
“ZZ Bryant.” Pulling the blanket closer as she shivered, she brushed back her sodden shoulder-length hair. She wore a skin-tight, V-necked cashmere sweater and hip-hugging jeans that began four inches below the waist, leaving a swath of fishbelly-white skin. One ear sprouted five rings, the other a pearl stud. A tattoo of a black rose circled her belly button and matched the dark lipstick. Clunky purple Doc Martens loaded with swamp muck were on her feet. Then she rotated one arm with a wince. “I’m okay. But Mom will kill me for flipping her Jeep. I’ll be grounded until graduation next June. Maybe even longer. And I was getting a trip to Europe.” She sniffed and rubbed her pug nose on her sleeve. Mascara dribbled down her high cheekbones.
Only seventeen? And Belle Palmer collected another eccentric name. “How is that spelled? Zee Zee? Like Zsa Zsa? Are you partly Hungarian?”
“Just the two letters. My mom wanted me to have a cool name.” Her bee-stung lips reminded Belle of Clara Bow, the silent era’s Angelina Jolie. Collagen treatments already? The Yellow Pages were stuffed with cosmetic surgeons at a time when people were waiting two years for a new hip or knee.
Grateful that the conversation seemed to reveal no ill effects, Belle narrowed her eyes and introduced herself, feeling that she represented the sane neighbours. “Listen, ZZ. I’ve seen you on the road, and you drive like a total idiot. Frankly, I don’t care what you do to yourself, but I don’t want to meet you head-on or get forced down an embankment. In a strange way, especially since you’re not hurt, I hope this accident is a wake-up call for you.”
ZZ’s lower lip quivered. As an affectation, it was effective as hell. Adding that shy dimple made her a drop-dead-cute manipulator. But she reminded Belle of Miriam’s spoiled mini-poodle with a handmade four-season wardrobe.
“It wasn’t my fault. I swerved to miss a fox. I’m always late for something. We live so far from town.” She shrugged and gave a sigh. “Guess I have a heavy foot. I got a ticket last week. Paid for it the same day so that Mom wouldn’t find out.”
On a roll, Belle leaned forward and tapped her knee. “This might be the time to fess up, clean the slate. Your mother will be so glad you’re unhurt that she’ll forgive you. And by the way, Jeeps are known for their instability on curves.”
ZZ managed a smile and looked at her reflection in the window, frowning as she ran a hand through her dishevelled hair. “Some of those ETs are cute guys. Did you get my purse?”
Not long after, the ambulance made yet another turn down the road. ZZ was headed to the Emerg for a thorough examination. She had answered the paramedic’s questions, and there were no signs of injury other than the sore shoulder from the belts. Belle marked the spot in her mind. A bad banking angle had caused her to swerve into a snowbank here last winter during an ice storm. Still, ZZ had probably been doing over eighty kilometres per hour. She gave Miss Liberty’s sorry vehicle a salute. Ave atque vale. Future home: Rock City Wrecking.
Freya was sleeping on the hall rug when Belle returned and woke up with a snort. “Fast day or what?” Belle said. Stripping off her smelly clothes and runners, she took them to the laundry and put them on “soak”, with a dab of bleach. Then she went upstairs for a shower, a fresh outfit, and a bandage for her hand, which was stinging from the sharp sedge.
An hour later, when she arrived at the office, Yoyo looked up with a devilish expression. “That Steve Davis was here. Wants you to call him back. Where you been hiding that man? He’s a hunk. Reminds me of an old boyfriend who joined the Mounties. Six-foot-two, eyes of blue. Too bad he got his old girlfriend pregnant with triplets. Better her than me, though.”
Belle sorted her mail, a frown tickling her brow. Like Miriam, this woman knew which buttons to push. Another side effect of having no mystique. “Really, Yoyo. He’s married.” Not happily, she neglected to add, fearing further speculative comments.
Diamond chips seemed to glitter in Yoyo’s smile. “Big feet, too. And you know what they say about a man with big feet.”
A trap was being set, but crabby about the day so far, Belle was not in a teasing mode. Jokers had to run their course. If they sensed a weak spot, they plunged in the skewer and twisted it. “I give up.”
A roar of laughter erupted as Yoyo slapped the desk. “Big shoes!”
Then she stood and stretched, her small belly shielded in a tasteful dirndl skirt with a peasant blouse. Flats, too. Belle glanced at the calendar, nervous about Miriam’s delayed return. What if Yoyo was farther along than she’d stated? At this stage, pregnant women loved inviting people to feel the baby move, but Yoyo issued no invitation, perhaps sensing her employer’s disinterest. Women took their cues from their mothers, and Terry Palmer had never cooed at babies. Now if Yoyo had been a German shepherd . . .
“Ooo, my aching back. And I have to pee every fifteen minutes. Don’t ever get pregnant.” She went to the coffee machine, hoisted Belle’s cup, got a nod, and made one for each of them.
“It’s nearly too late for that, but I promise not even to get married, not that there’s any connection these free-wheeling days,” answered Belle.
“You’re missing out, sweetie. When you find the right guy, it’s the greatest job on the planet.”
Where had she heard that before? That annoying television advertisement, as if good male parenting could be legislated. Their merriment over for the moment, Belle reached Steve on his cell. He was starting off for Algonquin Bay to pick up a suspect in a recent confectionery robbery. “No worries on Joey Bartko. He has bigger problems than trash dumping, and he’s skipped. There’s a warrant out for him for passing bad cheques in every bar in town and failure to appear. He did some time a few years ago for running a meth lab in the bush, so this second offence will put him on ice. His mother in Skead swears he hasn’t been around, but it’s just a matter of time before we track down his last living cousin or no-account trailer-trash friend.”
“Thanks for the update, but I’m not sure I feel that safe. I mean he’s still on the loose, after all.” Didn’t Steve get the point? Or was it that he’d never been physically afraid in his life?
“Then move into town. You said it’s getting too crowded out there anyway. Might as well have the conveniences of civilization.” His voice was speeding up, as if he had other business on his plate.
“I appreciate your help. Give Heather a hug. Maybe you can bring her out for a swim in July when the lake warms up.” She pulled back from the disturbing drift of the conversation like the retreating horns of a slug. Steve’s lecture was on the mild side, but she didn’t feel like defending her lifestyle on a weekly basis. He’d relax only when she moved next door. Wouldn’t Janet have a cow . . . or an elk?
That night after grabbing a hot beef sandwich platter at Rudy’s on LaSalle, Belle turned into her drive later than usual. Darkness had pooled in the corners of the yard. Hélène had come down to feed and water Freya at six. On 105.3, the only station she could pick up in the last few miles, the radio was blaring Anne Murray’s “Snowbird” in a Canadian top hundred contest. “Spread your tiny wings,” she bellowed as she exited the van with a pirouette. Then her voice trailed to a whisper as she froze halfway to the deck. Was that a vehicle parked under a spreading maple or an optical illusion? The matte battleship grey sky bore no moon, and an eerie absence of wind gave the landscape a shadowless, two-dimensional effect. Her gaze swept the property as the hairs on her neck rose, and cerebral neurons left her legs waiting for directions. No weapon, no backup. A perfect time to regret that she hadn’t enrolled in tai chi. Like a trapped animal, she calculated the logistics. Too far back to the van. No man’s land.
She dropped the attaché case and rushed for the stairs. Once the door opened, her guard dog would come to the rescue. The slavering jaws of a ninety-pound shepherd, grey-muzzled or not, were quick persuaders. “Freya!” she screamed. But as she gained the deck and barking started, a rough hand reached out and grabbed her ankle. She fell, twisting in an iron grip, her shins bruised and lacerated.
“Not so fast. You and me got business, babe. Or maybe you should butt out of mine.” Smoke dribbled from his pinched nostrils.
One billion, give or take a million, synapses in her brain pointed to one man. “Bartko.”
“Joey to my friends. But you’re not on my Valentine’s list. Nosey bitch. What’s the skin off your nose if I dump some shit in the fucking bush? That’s what it’s for, stupid.” He coughed up a loogie and discharged it onto the deck.
“Let’s talk about what you did to my van.” Speaking loudly, she heartened at Freya’s maddened barking, aware that the dog heard their conversation and knew from the tones that it wasn’t friendly.
“Prove it. You got dick-all on me. Accidents happen.”
Backlit by a peach-melba glow lighting the western sky, Joey was a paunchy forty. He wore a Harley Davidson T-shirt that bulged over a studded leather belt, baggy jeans slit at the knee, and unlaced work boots. His thin, dirt-brown hair was either slicked back with gel or needed a Comet dip. He was a polluter, a cheque kiter and a drug dealer. Careers close enough to assault and even rape. What was in store for her? Her frantic eyes glanced at the unlocked door. She needed only to distract him long enough to open it and unleash the canine tornado.
As a broken-toothed grin spread over his face like a disease, he squeezed her arm. Belle winced but didn’t beg. Tomorrow there would be a bruise. What about a tomorrow, period? Junk psychology told her to keep talking. “You got me good on the van. That was smart. You must know cars.”
He snickered and flicked his cigarette, which spiralled off the deck onto the gravel, then pulled her close, grinding his hips against hers. A stale male-musk smell came wafting along, as if he bathed once a week at gunpoint and changed his clothes when they shredd
ed off. “Damn right. I’ve beat the system all my life. And don’t bother telling the cops about this friendly visit. Even if they do find me, which they won’t, I got a hundred gold-plated alibis for tonight.”
Freya was aiming for a world record of consecutive yelps and growls, jumping and scratching at the door. Joey pressed his temple. “That goddamn dog is giving me a headache. Needs a good lesson with a two-by-four.”
The crunch of tires, and a bicycle wheeled down the drive, startling him into relaxing his grip. “Hey, what the . . .”
Belle charged the door, pushing it open and falling into the hall. “Get him, girl!”
Joey was standing tall when Freya lunged at him, massive paws against his chest, her snarling face spitting drool. “Yaaaaa!” he yelled as he flailed wildly and tumbled down the stairs, hitting his head with a sound like a ripe melon on a concrete post base at the bottom. His features tightened, then relaxed as his breath subsided. Out cold, and a face only a weasel mother could love.
Belle gave Freya the signal to sit and wait. Her ruff raised in prehistoric wolf mode, the old dog narrowed her eyes at the body as if she’d like a taste. Belle stroked her head. “Easy, sweetie. You’d have to get your stomach pumped.”
A shiny mountain bike pulled up and ZZ got off, bearing a huge bouquet like an Olympic torch. “Guess I should have called. Dad told me it was too late to come, but you didn’t answer the phone all evening. I was going to leave these by the door. Hope I didn’t barge in on anything.”
“Barge away.”
Then ZZ looked down. “Eeuw. What’s the matter with him? I hope he’s not your boyfriend.”
Belle came down the stairs and patted her on the back. “Consider your debt paid in full. This guy’s been bothering me ever since I reported him for dumping in the bush.”