by Lou Allin
Coco returned with a smile the size of the Alberta oil fields. “Am I right, or am I right? She’s asking for some soup already.”
Belle saw the cuckoo clock on the wall pushing her margin into the red as lost opportunities passed. “Guess I’d better go. Tomorrow’s Friday. Nothing’s on. Tell her to take a long weekend if she needs it.”
Coco touched Belle’s arm. Inside the house, she wore no dark glasses, and her eyes were flaxflower blue, much like George Palmer’s, a colour that implied an honesty, real or imagined. It was hard to believe the woman was the barfly that Yoyo had portrayed. But with failing vision, her world would shrink. “You’re a good boss. Had one like you when I worked at Burwash.”
Belle turned in the doorway. “So Yoyo said. Weren’t you a cook?”
“And do I got the recipes. Oughta write a book. Hey, there’s an idea. I could make a mint.” She brandished the wooden spoon in concert, cackling like a jolly witch. “Shepherd’s Pie. Lasagna. Beef stew.”
“Rough country down there. How did you stand it?”
Coco’s eyes assumed a dreamy look, one crinkle in each corner for every decade. From next door through the paper-thin wall, a screaming baby took wing, but the old woman didn’t seem to hear. In tenements, deafness was a blessing. “Had me a sweet little house. One and only time. Good place for kids, living in the bush with our own school. Keeps them out of trouble with drugs and what-all. I raised the whole bunch there, Yoyo coming along twenty years after the first. Damn husband of mine never did hold down a job, then went off to Yellowknife with a waitress and never sent me a nickel. That garden was my prize. Asparagus patch with stalks thick as your thumb. Takes years to get ’em going, but how I do love it. Costs the moon at the grocery, though. I haven’t ate it for so long.”
Who would have thought prison life so bucolic? “A job like that must have had some drawbacks. What about the inmates?”
“Hell, those boys weren’t no trouble.” She gave a scoffing gesture, but then her face grew dark with a troubling memory, and her pace slowed. “It was—”
“Mom, I could use some tea before I try the soup,” Yoyo called as the bathroom door opened.
Belle took the cue and hustled herself out and down the hall. How did Coco run Baron up and down several times a day, or did Yoyo come by on her lunch hour? As Dietrich said, “You can lie about your age, but you can’t beat a good flight of stairs.” She arrived in the foyer, wondering if she should report the landlord to the authorities. Then again, he might tear it down and sell out to a fast-food franchise. Affordable housing was hard enough to find for the working poor.
The rest of the overcast afternoon was quiet. Belle thought about the close call with Yoyo and resolved to give Miriam a shout to see when she might be expected back. On the way home, she stopped at Mutt’s, noticing with a sinking feeling that the Infiniti still sat in the drive. Windows were open on the sultry night, and Jann Arden was singing “Ode to a Friend”. She knocked at the door, and Mutt waved at her from the sofa. Craning her head as she entered, she spread her hands in a question, her lips forming his sister’s name. “Winding down in the jacuzzi,” he said. “Coffee coolers are in the fridge. Megs hit Starbucks for Costa Rican. Pour yourself a cup.”
Belle again admired the pink-oak designer kitchen with Italian-tiled counters, a double-doored brushed-aluminum fridge and matching Jenn-Air stove. Her own two voltage-guzzling appliances came from the original cottage. Pouring a frosty glass and hitting the ice cube dispenser with childish glee, she took a refreshing gulp, returned to the living room and sank into a distressed leather chair. Overhead, the fans hummed in rhythm.
Mutt put down a book and leaned forward to take her hands between his. A few pounds lighter, an Omar Sharif hint of shadow under his eyes, he’d also lost some conditioning lying in bed for those days. “It’s great to see you. How can I thank you for saving my life?”
“I rented you the house. Comes with the territory. Did I leave many bruises bumping you down the stairs?”
“By the time I was out of the coma, they were hardly noticeable.”
“You’re reading. Is your memory coming back?” If cognitive abilities were sharpening, it boded well.
“It’s Gary’s. He took a book to bed each night, one of his habits.” He showed her the cover. Konrad Lorenz’s King Solomon’s Ring. “The ways animals communicate has me laughing. Good medicine.”
“I’ve read it. That’s why I’m glad Freya can’t talk.” She and Gary had shared many common interests.
“One odd thing.” He picked up a newspaper clipping from the lamp table. “I found this folded inside the book. What do you make of it?”
Belle read the Sudbury Star headline from a month ago: “Markis Reserve mortality rates 30% higher than rest of province.” If any group was dying off faster than Sudburians, it was First Nations people, with growing epidemics of diabetes, substance abuse and suicide. What tragic gifts the whites had brought with their so-called civilization. In this latest incident, two boys returning from a canoe trip had developed a mysterious rash and bumps on their legs and arms as well as breathing problems and dizziness. They denied sniffing solvents such as gas or glue, an ongoing problem in more remote Northern communities. The issue of contaminated water had been suggested. A government report from over ten years before had shown serious water problems on hundreds of reserves, a national disgrace. But Markis had tested its drinking water and found it safe.
Mutt asked, “Why did he keep this? Is this reserve near where he was working?”
Belle searched her geographical memory. The region had many reserves, one on the north shore of Wapiti, another bordering on Lake Nipissing. On a general scale, Markis was located to the southwest, and its eastern edge abutted the southernmost portion of meandering Long Lake, a duplication of Edgewater Road with its collection of old cottages and new brick monster homes. “Let’s check his topos to get oriented.”
He got up a bit stiffly in his black silk pyjamas and matching robe, and they went to the den. “Here’s the Burwash map we used for Bump Lake,” she said, then shook her head as her fingers traced locations. “We need something farther west. He probably portaged into other lakes or went down the rivers in his habitat research. Then again, maybe we’re way off base. He could have saved the clipping for someone else. Does he have friends who work with native people?”
Mutt’s lips formed a tight line, and he turned away. Then he cleared his throat. Had she struck a nerve? Was this the jealousy Megs had implied? “For a short time, he lived with an older man, a professor of sociology at Brock. An expert in native diversity issues. Max Leaver. Even after we began our relationship, they still had coffee together once in a while and sparred over politics. Max is a bit right wing, which has to be an anomaly for a gay man, like those Log Cabin Republicans in the States.”
“So you could ask him? Or—” She wanted to pursue the matter but worried about the intrusion.
“I’ll give him a call. Out of courtesy, I tried to contact him when Gary . . . died, but got his machine. It’s a bit awkward.”
“Maybe the article has no bearing on his research.” She still wasn’t clear on that benthos phenomenon. Mutt was recovering but a long way from total function. To press this too much wouldn’t be good for his self-esteem.
He levelled his hazel eyes at her. “Gary never did anything without a reason. He was the perfect scientist.”
Belle saw the copy of his novel that she’d returned that terrible morning. “I loved your book, especially the silent films you mentioned. Got the next two at Chapters.” In truth she’d picked them up half-price at Bay Used Books. “Which is your favourite?”
Mutt smiled shyly. “That’s like asking a parent which child is the golden one. But I like to think I’m getting better, so I’d say the latest. It’ll be out in the fall.”
“Great. You met the deadline?”
He shook his head with a brave smile. “We’re always about eighteen months
ahead of time. My deadline is for next year’s book, and I’m stuck in the middle.”
She stood to go, sorry that she had mentioned his work and the ongoing problems. “I can get that topo for the area west of Burwash. Maybe we’ll notice something significant.”
“I promised his chairman at Brock that I’d have a package to send on by the end of the summer. They can sort it out.” From upstairs they heard footfalls. Belle hastily twiddled her fingers at Mutt and slipped out the door.
When she got home, she went downstairs to replace her water filters. No water bills arrived, but she had to maintain a pump and a heated water line, continuously threatened by hydro outages in sub-zero weather. She turned off the valve and unscrewed the clear blue plastic tubes, taking them to the sink. Out of each came a white cartridge to collect debris and sediments. As she held a container to the light, small creatures swam like brine shrimp. Belle flushed the residue down the drain, stifling the urge to retch. What bottled water had Rosaline recommended? Crystal . . . Springs? Those monster bottles would be the best buy. Still, she’d have to purchase a water cooler, too.
Miriam was next on the list. If Yoyo was going to be off for more than a few days, or in the case that something dire happened with her pregnancy, she’d better check for back-up. She dialled Jack’s number, but a strange male voice answered. “Uh, a friend of Jack’s came in with a float plane, and Mimsy and him hitched a ride over to Lake Abitibi for some fishing at the guy’s camp. They’ll be back next Sunday.”
Fishing. One step beyond rehabilitation. It sounded like a vacation. Belle gave the table a light pound as she rang off. But should she really blame Miriam? When they’d talked only a week ago, Yoyo had been holding down the fort like a legionnaire at Fort Zinderneuf. A bush trip sounded like good medicine for the pair. They’d camped all over Northern Ontario during the first years of their marriage, before their daughter Rosanne had come along. Belle would keep her fingers crossed about Yoyo. At least Jack sounded like he’d soon be on his own again. Then an alarming thought struck her critical brain. Maybe they were getting back together for good, and she would soon lose her cohort. The idea made her stomach turn cartwheels.
SIXTEEN
At the office the next morning, having been delayed by a multi-car accident with ambulances and tow trucks converging from all directions, Belle was surprised to see Yoyo under a full head of steam. Her colour was healthy, and she marshalled her body like a midget staff sergeant, bustling around with lemon furniture spray, loading the coffee machine. A gleaming smile lit up her face, and it wasn’t just the whitening strips. Perhaps the glow of pregnancy wasn’t a myth after all.
“Back to normal?” Belle asked, shaking her golf umbrella onto the commercial carpet. A soft, warm rain had been falling since dawn, ideal weather for germinating the seeds in her garden. With recent events, she hadn’t even checked for telltale green sprigs.
“Mom was right about those damn shrimp, the old doll. Good thing I didn’t panic. Our neighbour with a bleeding ulcer had to wait eight hours at the Emerg.” She handed Belle a list. “Four more prospects. We might move that water-access camp on Trout Lake. Ryan is willing to drop another two thousand, and a buyer called last week asking about a place in that range.”
“Good work.” She checked her docket. Two free hours. Joey would be arraigned this morning, a sight she wanted to witness for atavistic satisfaction. Watching him led off in leg irons or the plastic equivalent would give her a boost. Then she’d get Ed and his ancient truck and clean the site so that she felt like walking there again. “Back in a few hours. I’m going to the courthouse. Call the cell if anything urgent comes up.” Suspecting strict protocol, she’d set it to vibrate.
Ten minutes later, heading down Cedar Street, she parked the van far down the block in a free spot. A short hike brought her to the halls of the old provincial courthouse. Near the wet and drooping Canadian flag, a granite obelisk stood proudly in commemoration of those fallen in the two world wars. Hosts of red geraniums and perky zinnias had been planted to celebrate summer’s all-too-brief tenure. Asking a security guard, she was told that arraignments and bail hearings took place in Courtroom One, along the hall to the left.
She seated herself in the back row, surprised to see almost a hundred people. Cases of all pedigrees appeared on the docket, from spousal assault to armed robbery to the rare murder. Sudbury had had only two so far that year, including a man left dead on frozen Lake Ramsey, par for Canada’s 3.8 per hundred thousand. Recently the long-awaited ban on pit bulls was creating a monster caseload of defiant owners turned in by fearful neighbours. Wives and mothers sat, wads of tissues to eyes. Surly teenagers skipping school had come to support their buddies, lounging long legs in the benches, their ball caps backwards, never wondering why the sun got in their eyes. Seeing the bailiff pass, she asked about Joey’s hearing. He consulted a clipboard. “Bartko? Alphabetical order. Your lucky day, miss.”
To pass the time, she opened Mutt’s second book, anticipating a treat. In Death in Bluffers Park, Lucy was involved in a hot chase after liquor smugglers, boating their booty across Lake Ontario to lawless Buffalo. Though rife with its own blue laws, Canada had never signed on nationally to Prohibition, allowing cities to vote wet or dry. Rough-and-ready Sudbury’s preference had been a foregone conclusion. She smiled to read about Lucy watching The Gold Rush. Charlie Chaplin devouring his boots with a knife and fork was a comedic milestone. She made a promise to herself to read her father a few passages about his old stomping grounds.
The courtroom was stifling, with only ceiling fans urging the heavy, humid air. Some muttering and movement at the front attracted her attention, and when Joey scuffled in wearing an orange jumpsuit with SPD on the back, she whispered an inner “yessss.” The days of wine and roses, or beer and chips, were over for this character.
“All rise.” The courtroom came to its feet as the black-robed judge entered, a woman with sleek, razor-cut reddish blonde hair, a trace of grey at the temples and a simple black pearl on each ear. Judge Betty Dean, a no-nonsense lady similar to Miriam in age and deportment, rapped her gavel smartly and brooked no interruptions, dispatching Joey’s case with a flare of her sharp nostrils and a staccato delivery. The docket was so heavy that he would be getting free rent for the next nine months. Bail was denied because of his high risk, not to mention the breach of probation.
Sneering at the decision, Joey had a few choice but cautiously mumbled words for the judge, tossing back his greasy hair as he stuck out his stubbled jaw. Two young men in caps, jeans and T-shirts gave Joey a “right-on” fist salute. Down came the gavel like a judgement of God. “That’ll do, Mr. Bartko, unless you want to be held in contempt. And that includes your ignorant friends. This is a court of law, not a tavern.” His lawyer, a fresh-faced woman from Legal Aid, her hair gelled in a flyaway fashion and wearing a ruffled blouse and a short skirt that displayed matchstick legs, whispered in his ear. Suddenly, all heads turned at a wail.
“Don’t take my boy. He’s all I got. I put up my house for security like last time,” called a care-worn, wrinkled woman in the front row who spoke hesitantly with a thick accent. Getting up slowly to thump her walker toward the bench, she was nearly as wide as she was tall, a fireplug in a nondescript brown raincoat. She reminded Belle of Maria Ouspenskaya in countless films where a salt-of-the-earth Slavic woman was needed. Her steel-grey hair was covered by a bright red babushka. Orthopaedic shoes and heavy lisle stockings were on her feet. With a firm nod to the bailiff, Judge Dean sent the woman back to her seat, where she buried her face in her hands and keened in grief, comforted by a woman with Heidi-style white braids who patted her bowed back.
Joey stood in cuffs, watching his mother with a concerned crease on his brow. Moving his manacled hands to his face, he brushed a tear from his eye. Then his gaze went to the back of the courtroom, fixed on Belle, and hardened into an ugly and feral expression. His friends caught the change and turned like a hyena pack to look
at her. Lowering her head, she slipped out of the courtroom, feeling exposed and endangered. This had been a very bad idea. Joey had bragged that he had friends. What might they do for him?
When she got to the office, she noticed Paul Straten’s card still on her bulletin board. She’d nearly forgotten about that baby elk. Had he received the autopsy report? Would anything conclusive appear, or would the death be unexplained? Mutt would be interested in any developments. Her call was routed to the departmental secretary at Nickel City College. “He left last week for Toronto with connections to Moscow and Siberia, where he’ll be working on a grizzly bear project in the Kamchatka Peninsula for the summer.”
“Darn. I should have called earlier.” Belle bit her lip, then explained her connection with Paul and the visit to the college. “Did he get any test results?”
“Pardon me.” The woman spoke to someone else, muffling the phone. “Sorry, a student came in with a late paper. You were asking about the elk, that poor little baby?”
A surge of hope fluttered in Belle’s ribcage. “Yes. Did he mention it?”
“He was gone when the fax came in. But he told me to call a . . . let’s see . . . Mutt Malloy.” She tittered at the name. “I tried, but no one answered. You’d think everyone would have an answering machine. Where is that consarned report? And the print was so small. Do they think we’re all thirty? I’ll need my . . .” She grumbled to herself amid sounds of drawers opening and closing and riffling of paper. “Here it is. The tissue samples showed signs of arsenic poisoning.”