Burying Ariel jk-7

by Gail Bowen

  Wordlessly, Howard took the Bic and lit her cigarette. She dragged on it deeply, then turned and walked towards the window. It had been fifteen years since I’d quit smoking, but at that moment I badly wanted a cigarette. I wasn’t the only one. Livia Brook surprised me by taking a Player’s from Solange’s pack and lighting it. It was as startling as seeing Preston Manning at a Tool concert. Livia’s marriage to Kenneth Brook had flamed out in a haze of booze and cigarette smoke, but since they’d split she had become zealous about her health. Everything that entered her body or touched her person had to be organic and unadulterated. Suddenly, it seemed as if the whole world was out of joint.

  As the pungent bite of burning tobacco filled the air, I gazed again at the last of Rosalie’s guests. When the announcement had been made that Livia was the new head of Political Science, Ed Mariani had whispered to me that she would find running our department as rewarding as herding cats. There was more truth than poetry in the image. We were a group of proud and headstrong individualists, certain we’d worked out the answers to all the questions that mattered. Ariel Warren’s death was revealing an unpalatable truth: our assurance was veneer-thin. We were badly in need of direction. Despite the fact that her composure was showing serious fault lines, Livia Brook supplied it.

  She walked over to the stereo, flicked it off, and then returned to her place at the table. In her mid-forties, Livia still had something of the undergraduate about her. Her wardrobe ran to corduroy jumpers, tights, and Birkenstocks, and her hair, a mass of shoulder-length curls, now more grey than chestnut, still had a certain Botticelli abundance. She wore little or no makeup. Her great beauty was her skin, which she kept exquisite with Pears soap and hot water. On the wall behind her desk was a sampler done in cross-stitch. “No Surprises,” it said, and it summed up both her post-divorce philosophy and her administrative style. Livia did her homework, ran the department with a fair and equitable hand, and, despite her newly acquired penchant for the rhetoric of empowerment and uplift, had the common sense to extinguish brushfires before they flared out of control. It was a valuable attribute in a department as deeply mired in crisis as ours had been when she’d taken over. Now there was another crisis, and apparently Livia had decided that it would be wise to channel our emotions.

  “I think a moment of silence so each of us can deal with our feelings privately might be appropriate.” Her voice was firm, but as she steadied herself against the table edge, her narrow fingertips trembled. Like grateful sheep, all of us, including Solange, scrambled to our feet, and when Livia bowed her head, we followed her lead.

  When a suitable amount of time had elapsed, Livia rescued us from our private thoughts. “Some of you may be uneasy about what you’re experiencing right now. Don’t judge yourself. Feelings are neither right nor wrong. They simply are, and they deserve validation.”

  In the months since she’d become department head, Livia had often offered the soothing bromides of the self-help movement as a remedy for overheated passions, but today her delivery of the articles of her faith was flat, like that of an acolyte who had suddenly become an unbeliever. She looked at us with unseeing eyes. When her glance fell on Rosalie Norman, she appeared to find her focus again. “We have to keep on keeping on. Continuance is the answer,” she said. “Rosalie will need some help getting her gifts back to the office.”

  Grateful for direction on a day that seemed suddenly to have broken from its moorings, people headed for the door. Ed Mariani scooped up an armload of pastel-wrapped presents. As he passed by me, he whispered, “At least we were spared a shower of healing stones from Livia’s enchanted ritual bag.” He sighed heavily. “Truth be told, I wouldn’t mind having a hunk of rose quartz to clutch right now.”

  “I forget what rose quartz is supposed to do,” I said.

  “Heal the heart.” Ed looked over at Solange. “If I had a piece, I’d share it with her, except I imagine that at this moment she isn’t making exceptions for gay men.”

  “I’ll talk to her,” I said.

  Ed gave me a quick peck on the cheek. “Good luck.”

  Solange was facing the window again, wreathed in cigarette smoke, which seemed to isolate her private and terrible mourning. I walked over and touched her shoulder.

  She turned, and the breath caught in my throat. She was transformed. Her face was ashen and carved with the lines of bitterness that mark those who have seen the worst and know there is nothing better ahead.

  “Solange, is there anything I can do to help?”

  “It depends.” She stubbed out her cigarette on a dessert plate that had been abandoned on the windowsill. “Can you raise the dead, Joanne?”

  She ran from the room, and I made no attempt to follow her. When I felt Howard Dowhanuik’s arm around my shoulder, I relaxed into it. We walked downstairs in silence. Instead of turning in to the glassed-in walkway that connected College West to the Lab and Classroom buildings, Howard headed for the doors that led outside. “Let’s take the long way back to the office,” he said. “I need to figure out how I’m going to break this to my son.”

  “The newsroom at Charlie’s station will be getting the story soon. They may have it already,” I said. “You don’t have much time.”

  When he turned to face me, Howard’s eyes were rheumy. “My grandmother used to say, ‘There’s this life, the next life, and a turnip patch on the other side.’ ”

  “Not much there to cling to when times get rough,” I said.

  Howard shrugged. “Have you got anything better?”

  As we approached the grassy slope where I’d seen Ariel and her class that morning, I had to admit I didn’t. At that moment, it was hard to envision a future that contained anything but pain. The University Day Care Centre was nearby, and the staff had liberated their preschoolers to take advantage of a five-star spring day. Wild with freedom, the children ran and somersaulted down the little hill, a kaleidoscopic, perpetually moving swirl of fluorescent wind-breakers and new sneakers. As they called out one another’s names in voices bright as May sunshine, I remembered other voices, other children.

  Ariel had been a golden child, tow-headed, cobalt-eyed, long-limbed. From the moment she came through the front door for Mieka’s party, she had been surrounded by other children. Charlie Dowhanuik had spent much of the party on the edge of the fun, watching intently, his small fingers splayed against his cheek, trying without success to cover the purple birthmark that threatened to engulf his face. When I served the food, he squeezed in next to Ariel. She had reached up, pulled his hand down with her own, and peered at his face closely. “It’s not so bad,” she said, “but if I get the dime in the cake, I’ll give it to you.”

  When Howard and I passed the closed door of Solange Levy’s office and heard weeping, Howard shot me a supplicating look.

  “I’ll see if there’s anything I can do,” I said. “You call Charlie.”

  Solange’s door was open a crack. I rapped on it. “Solange, it’s Joanne.”

  “Are you alone?”

  On the desk in front of her were her silver bicycle helmet and the lock to her prized Trek WSD, but Solange didn’t appear to be going anywhere. A cigarette smouldered between her fingers. She was holding a framed photograph in her hands. As I watched, she ripped the photo out, picked up a snapshot from her desk and slid it carefully into the pewter frame. “I have to protect this,” she said. “It’s of Ariel at Lake Magog. It was the first day of the New Year, and she was so happy. She’d always been so worried about other people’s happiness – so afraid to put her own wishes first.” Solange shook her head furiously. “So female and so destructive. But she found her strength on our hike at Mount Assiniboine. There were just the two of us. It was tough. There was a blizzard. There were places where the ascent was straight up the mountain. Once the path under her feet just gave way, but she held on.” Solange stared at the photograph. “All her life she’d had fears, but by the time we got to Lake Magog, she knew she’d never go back t
o being the compliant little girl. She had found her power.” Solange’s voice broke. “Then some bastard kills her as if she were an animal.” For a beat Solange herself seemed torn apart by the violence that ended her friend’s life; then she turned to steel. “He won’t get away with it.”

  I followed her as she strode down the hall. There were three people in the main office: Detective Robert Hallam was watching Rosalie search the drawer of the cabinet where we kept personnel files, and Livia Brook was hovering between them like a duenna.

  Solange paid them no heed. A counter separated the reception area from the office. When Solange set the photograph on it, Livia came over immediately. She picked up the picture, glanced at it quickly, then thrust it at Solange. “It’s too much,” she said. “We don’t need a reminder of what we’ve lost.”

  “You’re wrong.” Solange’s tone was coldly furious. “We do need a reminder. We all need to be reminded every minute of every day that what that monster took from us was beyond price. Otherwise, there will never be justice.” Solange returned the photograph to the counter, but her fingers lingered, caressing the curve of the frame. “When I was young,” she said, “I was prepared for confirmation by a Spanish priest – a fat, useless old man, peddling cruel patriarchal dogma, but one of his lessons stayed with me. He told me there was a Spanish proverb I should remember whenever I had to make a choice in life.” Her voice deepened into a parody of the old priest, and she wagged her finger theatrically. “God says, ‘Take what you want. Take it, and pay for it .’ ” She turned to face me. “The man who killed Ariel took the best, Joanne, and if God won’t make him pay for it, I will.”

  CHAPTER

  2

  After her diatribe, Solange seemed on the verge of shock. The carapace of the warrior had shattered. She was hugging herself, but as strong as her arms were, they seemed incapable of holding the pieces together, and her tawny green-flecked eyes were unblinking and wary. I reached out to her, but Livia stepped between us and slid her arm around Solange’s waist. “She needs to be alone for a while. She has to find the place inside herself that will enable her to accept this.”

  Robert Hallam raised an eyebrow. “When she finds that place I’ll want to talk to her. Meanwhile,” he said, turning to Livia, “I’d appreciate a few minutes of your time.”

  “Of course,” Livia said. “Just let me get Solange settled.”

  Rosalie removed her pale yellow jacket, hung it carefully on the back of her chair, filled a glass at the water cooler, picked up a box of tissues, and followed Livia and Solange into the inner office. Too exhausted to move, I stared at the closed door, hoping against hope that somewhere in Livia’s endless store of New Age baloney, there was a mantra that could fix everything. I wasn’t optimistic.

  Rosalie was back almost immediately, but Livia stayed with Solange for several minutes. By the time she emerged, Robert had his notebook and pencil at the ready, and his foot was tapping. “Let’s get to the questions, Dr. Brook,” he said. “I haven’t got all day, and there are a lot of people to see.” I took that as my cue to leave.

  When I got back to my office, Howard was waiting for me. He was standing at the window, looking out at the campus. The early-afternoon sun poured in on him, softening his angular features, changing him from a wary old eagle into someone kindly and avuncular. The metamorphosis was more apparent than real. He gazed at me through hooded eyes.

  “Is it my imagination or is the number of dumb fucks in the world increasing?”

  “I take it your question isn’t rhetorical,” I said.

  “You tell me.” Howard ran a gnarled hand over his head. “The young cop they sent to interview me had a pronunciation problem. Every time he said the word ‘deceased,’ it came out ‘diseased.’ ”

  I bit my lip to keep from smiling. “As in ‘How well did you know the diseased?’ ” I said.

  “Exactly. Jesus, Jo. That kid must use the word ‘deceased’ a hundred times a week. You’d think somebody would have told him, wouldn’t you? Then, after he left, I tried Charlie’s house. No answer, so I called the radio station. They’ve got the Queen of the Coneheads answering the phones there. She refused to put me through to Charlie directly. Told me it was station policy to screen all calls. I told her my call was important. She said every phone call CVOX gets is important. I told her it was an emergency. She said if I considered myself suicidal, she’d redirect my call to a crisis line; if not, I could leave my name and number like everybody else.”

  “Did you tell her you were Charlie’s father?”

  Howard looked abashed. “It didn’t occur to me,” he said quietly. “Talk about dumb fucks. I’m going to call a cab and go over there.”

  “Forget the cab,” I said. “I’ll take you.”

  “Have the police talked to you yet?”

  “Nope, but they know where I live.”

  Howard frowned. “You don’t have to do this.”

  I picked up my sweater. “True, and you didn’t have to stay up with me all night when Ian died or spend hours convincing me the world hadn’t come to an end when Mieka dropped out of university or come to the hospital with me when Angus got that concussion playing football… Shall I continue?”

  He grinned sheepishly. “Let’s hit the road.”

  As soon as I turned the key in the ignition, Howard reached for the radio dial and punched in CVOX. It was 2:30 – time for Charlie’s show.

  Howard turned to face the window on the passenger side. His voice was a gravel whisper. “Do you think he’s found out yet?”

  “You’ll be able to tell when you hear him,” I said. “He doesn’t hold much back on that show.” It was true. I wasn’t a fan of open-line radio, and CVOX was all talk all the time, but whenever I’d caught “Heroes” I’d been impressed. Charlie’s subject was relationships, and he treated his callers’ problems with intelligence and a wild, subversive wit. He had taken the show’s name from Joseph Campbell’s book The Hero with a Thousand Faces, and the reference was significant. Many would have dismissed Charlie’s callers as malcontents or as charter members of the tribe of the terminally confused. But to Charlie they were heroes engaged in the hero’s journey to find answers that would make sense of their lives. His advice to them was a potent mix of eclectic allusion and dark insight that suggested their problems went beyond the classroom or the trailer court, and his audience, comprised largely of the desirable seventeen-to-thirty demographic was huge and loyal.

  When the drummer from Dave Matthews Band counted the band into Charlie’s theme music, “Ants Marching,” Howard stiffened. So did I, but as the music faded and Charlie began his intro, his dark-honey voice sounded as it always did, intense and intimate.

  “It’s 2:30 on CVOX, Voice Radio, and this is Charlie D, kicking off the first weekend of summer. Hot sun, cold beer, new friends, old loves – a time for revelry. But there are some among us who just can’t seem to celebrate the cosmically embedded self. No matter what you do for them, it’s never enough. This show is about them, or it’s about you if you’re one of them. “Some people,

  No matter what you give them

  Still want the moon. “The bread,

  The salt,

  White meat and dark,

  Still hungry. “The marriage bed

  And the cradle,

  Still empty arms.”

  Howard turned to me furiously. “What the hell’s he doing?”

  I raised my hand in a hushing gesture. “Listen.”

  Charlie’s voice was a seeping wound. He was close to the breaking point, but he was also a professional. He didn’t falter. “You give them land,

  Their own earth under their feet,

  And still they take to the roads. “And water: dig them the deepest well,

  Still it’s not deep enough

  To drink the moon from.

  “This show is about them… the ones who, even after you’ve dug them the deepest well, say it’s not deep enough, because it doesn’t let them
drink the moon…”

  Howard glared at me. “Well?”

  “It’s called ‘Adam’s Complaint.’ Denise Levertov wrote it. Charlie uses poetry on his show all the time.”

  “Maybe to you it’s just poetry. But to a cop it’s going to sound like a confession. In cases like this, the boyfriend’s always a suspect.” Howard picked up my cellphone. “Charlie needs a lawyer.”

  “You’re a lawyer,” I said.

  Howard replaced the phone in the well between our seats. “Do you think he’d let me act for him?”

  “Why not?” I said. “You’re the best, and you’ll come cheap.”

  CVOX was a concrete and glass box surrounded by larger concrete and glass boxes that sold such commodities as discounted designer fashions, end-of-the-roll carpeting, and furniture that could dazzle your friends for a year before you had to cough up a single dime. The station was indistinguishable from its neighbours, except for the oversized call letters on its roof. The “ O ” in CVOX was an open, red-lipped mouth with a lascivious Mick Jagger tongue. Spectacular as the sign was, Howard didn’t even give it a passing glance. He leaped out of the car before I came to a full stop.

  I walked through the double glass doors at the front of the building just as the Queen of the Coneheads was running to block Howard’s entrance to the corridor that presumably led to the radio studios. Howard was a big man, six-foot-three and powerfully built, but he was no match for this tiny young woman with three-inch platform shoes and attitude as spiky as her hair.

  “No way,” she said. “Nobody goes in there unless I say they go in there.”

  Howard gazed at me beseechingly. He had never found it easy dealing with women.

  I walked over and stepped between them. The young woman gave me a quick up and down, decided I was harmless, and relaxed. “This is Charlie Dowhanuik’s father,” I said. She stared at me uncomprehendingly. I corrected myself. “Charlie D’s father,” I said.