The Hidden Agenda of Sigrid Sugden

by Jill MacLean

  I’d be in the same province as Hanna.

  There’d be no Seal. No Lorne.

  No Hud.

  No Tate. No Mel.

  I hear a tiny rustle in the straw and open my eyes. Ghost is pacing over to his food bowl. He sticks his nose in it and chows down. He’s only ten feet away from me.

  “Hi, Ghost,” I whisper.

  He freezes. “It’s okay, I want to be your friend. Someday I’d like it if you came to live with me.”

  He darts a look over his shoulder, then bounds for the nearest bale and leaps for the loft. I can’t picture him locked in a crate, flying all the way to Fort McMurray.

  Abe’s gone inside, so I bike home. It’ll take time to tame Ghost. Can’t expect to do it in three visits.

  I hold onto that hope all the way to Fiddlers Cove.

  Outside my place, Mel’s bicycle is lying on the side of the road, and she’s pounding on our front door. A plastic bag dangles from her other hand.

  I stop at the end of the driveway, my heart hammering as hard as her fist. Keeping my bike between me and her, I call, “I’m over here.”

  Swinging the bag like a weapon, she marches over. Straight greasy hair, pale lashes, no lipstick. She thrusts the bag at me. “Open it.”

  She’s torn the packaging off the make-up, broken the hinges on the eye shadow, and snapped the eyebrow pencil into pieces. Lipstick is smeared over the box of foundation. The gift certificate from Darlene’s, for a cut and perm, is ripped in two. I can’t think of a word to say, I feel that discouraged.

  One more mistake to add to my total.

  She sticks her face into mine. “You don’t like the way I look?”

  I struggle to find the right words. “Mel, I thought all girls liked make-up—I know I do. And I chose pretty colors…ones I thought you’d like.”

  “I asked you a question!”

  “I was only trying to help.”

  “So you don’t like the way I look.”

  “You’ve got it wrong,” I say slowly. “The way I see it, you don’t like the way you look.”

  She blinks. For a moment she looks like someone else altogether—someone sad and frightened. Someone who lost her mother. “I don’t like you givin’ me crappy presents,” she says. “Makin’ fun of me.” She upends the bag. The tube of lipstick rolls down the slope and plops into the ditch. The tissue tumbles out, balled up so tight it looks like a grenade. “You leave me alone,” she says. “Or I’ll make your face look different—and it won’t be with make-up.”

  “I’ll leave you alone, Mel.” I hesitate, then go for broke. “I’m sorry your mom died.”

  Her fist flashes out so fast that I don’t have time to duck; it hits my shoulder, rocking me on my feet. She swivels on her heel, grabs her bike, and aims for Tate’s place even though she’s not supposed to go there. I bend down and shovel the make-up into the bag. Then I run indoors and snap every latch in the place.

  I feel about as whiny as it’s possible for one person to feel.

  Lorne texts to say Sally’s parents have invited him and Sally for supper. Seal comes home right after his shift. I made fish cakes from scratch.

  As he sits down, he says, “Thanks for warning me yesterday about your mother coming to Davina’s place.”

  And that’s all he says. I wait for him to tell me how it went.

  He passes me the salt, eats four fish cakes, says it’s supposed to be sunny tomorrow, and gets up from the table. After he showers and changes his shirt, he says, “I’m going to Davina’s. I’ll be home by eleven.”

  I wash the dishes, dry them, put them away, wipe the counters, find the number written on the back cover of the phone book, and stare at the phone.

  It’s three and a half hours earlier in Fort McMurray.

  In all the years since my dad left, I never once phoned him.

  I tap the numbers, eleven of them. The phone rings three times before a woman’s voice says, not overly polite, “Who’s this?”

  “Can I speak to Randy Sugden, please?”

  “He’s just getting out of the shower. Who’s calling?”

  “I’ll wait,” I say.

  “Just a minute,” she says and plunks the phone down. I can hear her talking to someone, but can’t hear what she’s saying.

  A man says, cautious-like, “Is that you, Lissie?”

  “It’s Sigrid.”

  “Sigrid? Is something wrong?”

  “No. Was that Barb who answered the phone?”

  “Yeah…you can’t have my letters yet because I only mailed them yesterday. One for you, one for Lorne, and one for your mother.”

  “Letters? What about?”

  “Barb and me,” he says. “We got married.”

  I grip the phone. “Oh. When?”

  “Two days ago. Only reason I’m home is because we’re taking off for the weekend, the two of us. Vegas.” There’s a pause. “Her sister from Edmonton is looking after the kids.”

  Do you still love me?

  “Congratulations,” I say, my voice flat as a pancake. “I hope you’ll be happy.”

  “We get on good, me and Barb.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “I’ll keep on sending the money to you and Lorne, and to your mother until you turns eighteen.”

  “Seal’s moving out.”

  He gives a bark of laughter. “Lasted longer than I thought he would.”

  My mind goes blank. He doesn’t ask what will happen to me without a dad or a stepdad.

  “Our kids are doing good,” he says. “They’re both in school now.”

  “I’m your kid, too!”

  “Don’t I write you letters every month and me about as handy with a pen as a dog with a cod jig?”

  “You could phone instead.”

  “S’pose I could.”

  “What did you do with the class picture I sent?”

  He says, and you can hear the relief, “Barb framed it.”

  “You used to push me on our swing.”

  “I set one up here. Brandon—he’s five—he likes it.”

  “I—I gotta go.” I feel dizzy, like someone wound the chain on my swing real tight and now I’m whirling round and round.

  “I likes getting your letters,” he says gruffly. “Bye, Sigrid.”

  I put the phone back. If you paid me a million dollars, I wouldn’t ask if I could go and live with him and his wife, Barb, and their two kids.

  Twenty-One

  to pray

  I wait until dusk before I leave the house. Black tights, black sweater, black socks, and I don’t bother with a flashlight—nearest thing I own to a sword—because the Avenger’s not going far.

  The scrubby spruce trees behind Tate’s place give me cover as I creep closer to her house. Mr. Cody’s gray car is parked near the road. Mrs. Cody works late at the bookstore on Friday nights, so she’s not been home long.

  No light on the front porch. Blinds pulled down on one of the back windows. The other window is dimly lit. Slow as I can, I bring my head up to the sill, ready to duck and run in an instant.

  The room is empty. I stand up so I can see all the way in. White walls, single bed, a bookshelf with a pile of scribblers on it but only one book: a Bible with gold lettering on the spine. It must be Tate’s room.

  The bedspread is brown. No rug on the floor. No pictures on the wall or ornaments on the bureau. I’ve never been inside a convent, but this is how I picture a nun living.

  I wonder where Tate hides her chain earrings.

  My shoes whispering in the grass, my shoulder tight to the siding, I creep along the side of the house. No lights in the window. I peer inside. Kitchen, and it’s empty, too.

  Biting my lip, I back up, shuffle behind the house, and edge along the other side where light angles over the grass because the drapes are open.

  A truck approaches. Bent low, I keep my face, the only white part of me, hidden.

  I should’ve worn a mask.

  The
truck drives by.

  Scarce breathing, I raise my head until I can see through the gap in the curtains.

  Living room. Three people in it. Mr. and Mrs. Cody, her in another of those shapeless dresses, her husband in a suit and tie. Tate’s wearing plaid pajama pants and a loose t-shirt. No chains.

  No one’s looking my way.

  Although I can’t hear what Mr. Cody’s saying, it’s easy to see he’s angry. A cold anger, his face rigid, only his lips moving. Every now and then, Mrs. Cody nods. Tate’s standing very still.

  Mr. Cody picks up a hardcover book from the coffee table. Tate’s mother bows her head. He barks an order. Tate bows her head. He starts praying. It goes on a long time.

  This isn’t your normal dysfunctional family. It’s Tate smashing head-on into the Congregation of the Sacred Brotherhood.

  Mel visited Tate this morning—likely barged right in even though Mrs. Cody hadn’t left for work yet. Mrs. Cody must have told Mr. Cody.

  My knees are stiff and a mosquito’s whining by my ear. I crouch down, swat the mosquito, and wonder what I’m doing here. Another mosquito bites my neck. I squash that one, too. I should’ve put fly dope on. Not that I think they ever test it on real live mosquitoes. Newfie mosquitoes.

  Easing my way up, I look through the window again. Mr. Cody has put the book down on the table; he’s asking Tate a question. She shakes her head. He steps closer. She says something, talking fast. He raises his hand as if he’s going to hit her. But he doesn’t. Instead, he wraps his hand around Tate’s shoulder, his wife plants both her hands on Tate’s other shoulder, and together they push down hard.

  Tate lands on her knees on the living-room floor. Even through the window, I can see how her father is digging his fingers into her t-shirt. Tate bows her head. Her mother and father bow their heads. The praying starts again.

  I don’t like this.

  I should go home.

  I lower myself onto the grass, squishing mosquitoes, one of them leaving a smear of blood on my wrist. I wish the window was open so I could hear what they’re saying.

  Or maybe I don’t.

  When I stand up again, Tate’s father is leaning over Tate, his fingers still rammed into her shoulder. He’s short and he’s skinny, but even I can see the threat. Tate’s lips move. On and on. Her face is white. No expression on it.

  It’s a warm night and I’m cold through and through. I can’t stand watching for one more second.

  Bent over, I sneak behind the house. My toe stubs a rock. Even though it’s almost dark, the chunks of granite that edge the lawn are paler than the grass. I look at them for a long minute.

  When I pick one up, it scrapes against the next one, the noise making me jump.

  No one leans out the window to see who’s there.

  I dig my fingers into the rock and crawl back along the side of the house. No cars or trucks on the move. A mosquito sings in my ear. Stepping away from the wall into the open, I check which windowpane doesn’t have a screen, picture Mr. Cody’s rigid face, take aim, and fire the rock at the window.

  Smash and shatter of glass.

  I’m behind the house and running hard, eyes straining to see the ground. Past our neighbors’ place, then it’s our place, my feet thudding on the grass. As I dart to the front door, there’s not a scrap of cover. I wait for Mr. Cody to yell my name, too scared to look back and see if he’s rushed outside.

  Key in the lock, fingers trembling.

  I slip indoors, locking the door behind me. Through my bedroom window, I look over at Tate’s place. No sign of Mr. Cody and the light’s still out on their front porch.

  I haul off the black clothes, throw them in my closet, and pull on my pjs.

  Once again, the Avenger’s done her thing without thinking it through. But what choice did I have? There’s times you gotta act regardless of what follows. Like calling Prinny’s father when she was in the dory. Like taking on Mel and Tate when they were bullying Selena.

  The Codys didn’t see me. They can’t possibly blame Tate for the broken window. Maybe they’ll think it was Mel, who’s a champion rock-thrower.

  Unless they decide God fired the rock.

  Tate’s empty smile, her cold anger, her cruelty—now I know where she got them.

  Surprise, surprise, I can’t go to sleep. By now, I’ve convinced myself that creepy Mr. Cody will punish Tate even though she was down on her knees praying when the rock sailed through the window.

  Doyle Quinn punished Hud for a flat tire.

  Mel punched me for giving her a present.

  Mr. Cody’s anger is ice-cold, Doyle’s is almost casual, while Mel’s is brutal…then there’s my mother, white-hot furious when all I did was fix up the kitchen, vindictive when Seal, who she doesn’t want, starts dating someone else.

  I wonder how she’ll react when she finds out my dad has married Barb.

  Rain’s started pattering on the roof by the time I hear someone come in the front door. Two loud thumps. Lorne, taking off his boots. I glance at the clock, scramble out of bed, and open my door.

  “Hey,” he says. “How’s it going?”

  “You’re home early.”

  “Sally wasn’t feeling so good. Want some nachos?”

  “Yeah…” I follow him into the kitchen. He takes salsa and sour cream out of the refrigerator. “I’ll grate the cheese,” I say.

  “Want a Coke? We got any beer?”

  We settle on the couch, me with pop, him with a can of Black Horse. I’m in no hurry for my first taste of beer, which in my opinion looks like pee and smells like old socks. Lorne flicks the remote to a sitcom with a lot of canned laughter.

  “Lorne,” I say, “do you believe in God?”

  He swallows too much salsa and chokes. Wiping his eyes, he says, “I guess so...not something I think about much.”

  “Do you think He’s mean or kind?”

  Lorne lowers the volume on the TV and gives the matter some thought. That’s another reason girls go for my brother—if you really want to know something, he’ll do his best to come up with an answer, and not just any answer. “Not sure He’s either one,” he says. “If He’s kind, He’s not doing a great job, given the state of the world. And if He’s mean…well, what’s the point of having Him around?”

  “D’you think we’re born mean?”

  “Nah. Not usually—we learn it as we go along. School’s the best place.”

  “You’re not mean.”

  “I can be. After we left her parents’ place, Sally was right cranky. So I doled out my share of cranky until she told me it was PMS—then I rubbed her back for her and came home.”

  “I called Dad this afternoon. He married Barb two days ago.”

  “No kidding.”

  “They’re going to Vegas for their honeymoon. Do you think he still loves us?”

  “Sends us money every month.”

  “Guilt.”

  He grins. “It’s still fifty bucks and they still take it at the bank.”

  “I never know what to say when I write to him.”

  “You should text, like I do. Shorter.”

  “Texting is for friends,” I say and reach for a nacho. “Seal’s dating Davina Murphy.”

  “Yeah, I heard. Ma’s bunking at Ady and Roy’s place, I heard that, too.”

  “Are you going to marry Sally?”

  “You’re some full of questions tonight. I dunno, Sigrid. I’m not ready to get hitched, I guess, and I’m none too sure Sally is. She’s talking of moving to St. John’s, taking French immersion, then applying for a Coast Guard course. Good money in that.”

  Which means you’ll move to St. John’s...

  We watch the news. Afterward, I stack the dishes in the sink, hug my brother, and go to bed. A few minutes later, Seal comes home.

  All three of us under the same roof.

  Twenty-Two

  to collide

  Because Seal has an afternoon shift the next day, he wants to run a few er
rands in St. Fabien in the morning. He whistles softly to himself as he drives. I don’t tell him my real dad married Barb, and I don’t ask him how Davina’s doing.

  Being nice every minute of every day is too much to ask.

  I take the torn gift certificate to Darlene’s, where I tell the lady at the counter that the person didn’t want it. I ask if I can use it for my next haircut. Although she looks like she’s bursting with questions as she flattens the crinkled paper, all she says is, “Sure, dear, just make an appointment.”

  I pick up a couple of things at the drugstore, which makes me late for meeting Seal in Home Hardware. First person I see, staring at a row of paint cans as though they’ll tell him the meaning of life, is Hud Quinn.

  I don’t think Flat White Latex is the answer.

  I wish I knew the answer.

  As I chug up and down the aisles looking for Seal, I’m wondering why I didn’t go up to Hud and say hello.

  I barrel past an end display of caulking guns. Long legs in jeans, a big box with paint cans balanced on top—I see them a split second before I crash into them. The legs buckle. I try to anchor my sneaks but a boot tramps my foot, and a knee, bony as a skull, knocks me backward. The box—CERAMIC TILE 6”X 6”—tilts. The paint cans slide toward me, fast, faster. I yelp in fear, bashing into the metal shelving as I dodge.

  As box and cans hit the floor with an almighty crash, an elbow spears my ribs, then my nose is buried in a plaid shirt that stinks of sweat. The guy says something short and sharp and it ain’t ouch. He’s heavy. I yelp again, a smothered yelp.

  The guy pushes himself off me. The cans are rolling across the concrete floor. I gulp in air. A can of paint—Flat White Latex, I notice with a swoop of hysterical laughter—sways gently back and forth.

  He says, “You little idiot—look what you did!”

  Doyle Quinn. I just banged into Doyle Quinn. He’s gonna belt me like he belts his son and it’ll be me rolling in the aisle.

  I back up fast.

  It’s not me I should be worried about. It’s Hud. Terror rips through me. I’ve riled Hud’s dad and guess who’ll pay the price. “Sorry, sir,” I mutter, bend down, and set two of the cans upright. What if the tiles are smashed?