by Gail Bowen
But in Prince Albert, the woman who ran across the tarmac towards Molly Warren broke through Molly’s terrible self-imposed isolation. The woman was accompanied by a dog who looked like a wolf, and she herself was what my grandmother would have called “an odd duck”: bowl haircut, barrel chest, orange windbreaker and matching ball cap. Odd duck or not, she was obviously the one person Molly Warren wanted to see. When she opened her arms, Molly allowed herself to be enfolded; when the two women moved away from one another, Molly handed her the rectangular wooden box. Even from a distance, it was apparent Molly was grateful this particular burden was now being shared.
The two women walked arm in arm towards a small bush plane, the wolf-dog following at their heels. Molly climbed inside but the woman and her dog waited to greet us. I liked her on sight. She had a broad Cree face and a ready smile. She embraced Drew Warren wordlessly, then turned to us.
“I’m Gert,” she said. “This is my plane and this is my flying service.” She pointed to the dog at her feet. “This is Mr. Birkbeck,” she said. “He’s been with me since he was a pup. He goes everywhere with me. We always take the Warrens up to their place on the island.” Her voice was warm and husky. She patted the box with a square-fingered hand. “I never would have dreamed that I’d be the one to fly her up this last time.” She gestured with her head towards the inside of the plane where Molly and Drew had already taken their places. “Hurry up and get in there,” she said. “They’ll need to get this over.” Then, as if as an afterthought, she said, “I hope they make it.”
As I gazed at the endless, unknowable sky, I wondered if any of us would make it. Gert’s plane was ridiculously small, but the motto painted on its side was reassuring: GERT GETS YOU THERE. I climbed on, found my seat, and watched Mr. Birkbeck amble aboard. The moment Gert closed the plane door, he curled up and gave every appearance of falling instantly into a deep sleep. As the engine coughed to life, I closed my eyes. Mr. Birkbeck would not be sleeping if he sensed danger. Somewhere in his marrow he knew that against every law of physics, Gert could keep this small metal tube aloft until we reached our destination. I had to believe he was right. I had to trust Mr. Birkbeck’s atavistic wisdom that somehow Gert would, indeed, get us there.
CHAPTER
10
Making the final break with the physical remains of a being who once glowed with spirit is never easy. But those of us who had gathered to bury Ariel Warren were, for a while at least, part of a farewell that was appropriate, honest, and stamped with the acknowledgement of what she had been to us all. Gert proved to be our salvation. At the Prince Albert airport, she had struck me as a person with the crisp compassion of the basketball coach at the girls’ school I’d attended. When a player was injured or humiliated, our coach had a way of catching the girl’s eye and communicating a message all the more powerful because it was unspoken. I know you’re hurting, the look said. But cry later. Get on with the game.
Gert, too, seemed to be a person with a natural talent for sizing up a situation and dealing with it. After she’d landed her plane beside the dock and we had all climbed out, only Mr. Birkbeck showed evidence of a sense of purpose. He found a patch of sun and then, in what appeared to be a physiological impossibility, flattened himself until his bones disappeared, leaving only his head and his hide. The rest of us looked hollowed out too, like survivors of an accident, dazed and uncertain about what to do next.
Gert took charge. “Misery hates a full stomach.” She turned to Drew and Fraser. “There are two coolers stowed in the back of the aircraft. Why don’t you get them off while the ladies and I go up and air out the cabin?”
Relieved at being issued marching orders, we set to work.
The cabin was made of logs, and it was very old. “My father built this place,” Molly Warren said. “He was a physician, too. He’d seen so many children with polio.” Her lips tightened. “He thought he could keep us safe.”
Gert knew a bad moment when she saw it. “Better get moving,” she said. “That cabin won’t air itself out.”
The wooden shutters were still nailed in place. When we unlocked the door, we were met with the musty gloom of a room that only rodents had called home during the long winter months. As my eyes grew accustomed to the shadows, I made out a wood stove, a couch piled high with Hudson’s Bay blankets wrapped in heavy plastic, and, incongruously, a lipstick-red canoe, hull side up, in the centre of the floor.
When she spotted it, Molly slumped. “Ariel’s,” she said. For a moment, she was silent, then she turned to Gert. “What was that joke she liked about the canoe?”
Gert swatted at a blackfly. “Not a joke,” she said. “A true story. They say that one day God was fooling around, the way He does, and son of a gun if He didn’t make a canoe. Well, He’d made a lot of stuff, but that canoe really blew Him away. ‘Helluva boat,’ he said. ‘But where am I going to paddle it?’ All of a sudden, it came to Him.”
Molly smiled as she supplied the punchline. “ ‘I know,’ He said. ‘I’ll make Canada.’ ”
Drew and Fraser appeared in the doorway, each carrying an old metal cooler. Drew’s eyes found his wife. “Nice to see you cheerful,” he said.
“The canoe story hasn’t failed yet,” Gert said. “Now, the two of you are going to have to do an about-face. It’s too dusty to eat in here. Let’s get back to the dock.”
The men traded glances, then started back towards the water. The easy camaraderie that had sprung up between Drew Warren and Fraser Jackson seemed to strengthen them both. Carrying out the ordinary tasks associated with Ariel’s last trip north appeared to give them a way to share the burden of their grief.
Molly Warren, too, was working hard at focusing on the mundane. “I’ll get the tablecloth,” she said. She went into the cabin and returned almost immediately with a zippered plastic storage bag. “Let’s go,” she said, and we headed for the lake.
Up the shoreline, the old dock, mugged by one too many winters, bellied low in the water, but the dock we had landed beside was new, a T-shaped structure in which the top bar of the T had been widened to ease the loading and unloading of passengers and provisions. The men had taken the coolers to the end of the dock and were unpacking the lunch in the shadow of the plane.
Molly looked thoughtful as she watched. “Maybe it’ll help to eat on the water.”
It did. Under a sun so intense it glazed the pebbles on the lake bottom, Molly lay down the box containing her daughter’s ashes. Then she removed the tablecloth from its protective case and shook it so that it fluttered down over the new wood. The cloth was astonishing: midnight-blue velvet, appliqued with gold- and silver-lame cut-outs of suns, moons, stars, buds, blossoms, fruits, birds, fish, and animals.
Fraser knelt down to scrutinize the cloth more closely. “This belongs in an art gallery,” he said. “Where did it come from?”
“Ariel made it,” Solange said. She turned to Molly questioningly. “She was how old…?”
“She turned thirteen the day she finished it,” Molly said.
Solange looked thoughtful. “Thirteen – a time of great power for girls.”
“It was a time of great power for my daughter,” Molly said. “When she was working on this cloth, she thought she’d discovered what she wanted to do with her life.”
“She wanted to make art?” I asked.
“Something like that,” Molly said. “Of course, it was out of the question.”
The gaze Solange shot Molly was lancing, but Gert headed off trouble. “Time to eat,” she said. “There’s a point past which I don’t trust homemade mayo.” She handed around the sandwiches. The choices were egg salad or bologna and mustard. Both were on white bread, generously buttered, and both were very good. The tea Gert poured from the Thermos was good, too, strong and sweet. Our talk was not casual. The presence of the pine box upped the ante, provided a subtext of tempus fugit that made idle chatter impossible.
Fraser Jackon traced the edges of an appliqued cr
escent moon on the midnight-blue cloth. “The only other time I saw something like this was at a magic show. My dad worked for the CNR. Every Christmas, the company had a party for employees’ families. One year they had a magician. Looking back, my guess is the poor guy was a serious boozer. He kept dropping things, and just before his big finale, his dove escaped.” Fraser laughed softly. “For most of the kids that was the highlight of the party, but not for me. He might have been a drinker, but that old man had a cape that had the same quality this cloth has – it transported you into another dimension.”
“And you decided to create your own cape by going into theatre.” The words were vintage Solange, but the tone was warm and urgent. She wanted this outsider who had somehow been an intimate of her friend to reveal himself.
He did. “I’d never thought of theatre as a magic cape,” Fraser said slowly, “but as metaphors go, that one’s not far off the mark. I’ve been able to make a lot of ugliness disappear through my work; I’ve also been part of some astonishing moments.” His eyes never left Solange’s face. “How about you?” he asked. “What’s your metaphor?”
She surprised me. Solange was, by nature, guarded, but that morning she didn’t shield herself. “The Ice Capades.” She shrugged. “Ridiculous, no? And ugly, too.”
Fraser’s expression was grave. “You don’t have to elaborate.”
“Why not?” she said. “We’re looking for truths about one another. And one truth about me is that all of my childhood stories are ugly. This one is particularly ugly because it’s about a man. Shall I continue?”
She glanced at each of us in turn, defying us to shut her down. No one did.
“Good,” she said. “This is a story that should be heard.” The warmth that had been in her voice when she had encouraged Fraser Jackson to talk about his past had vanished. Once again, her mask was in place.
“Most of the men my mother brought home left me alone. I’d always counted that as a blessing, but there was one man I liked. His name was Raymond. He was a milkman, and he brought us treats: ice cream, butter, cheese. One day he showed up with two tickets to the Ice Capades. A customer of his had been unable to go. She gave him the tickets, and he invited me. Raymond told me our seats were up with the gods. Naif that I was, I thought that meant they were the best; of course, it just meant they were cheap, situated at the very top row of the arena. We had to climb and climb. I’d never been in such a crowd. All those people – like a tide, carrying me along.” Reflexively, she rubbed her strong, sculpted arms, her insurance against being a victim ever again. “I was pressed against their bodies. I thought I’d suffocate from the smell – wet wool, cigarette smoke, and cheap perfume. By the time we’d found our seats, the blood was singing in my ears. During the national anthem, I had to put my head between my knees to keep from fainting.
“Then the music started, and a girl came onto the ice. Her costume was covered in silver sequins. As she skated on that smooth, perfect rink, little arcs of ice shavings flew from her skates into the air. I’d never seen anything so beautiful. I’d never been so happy.” Solange gnawed her lip. “Then I felt Raymond’s hand moving between my legs. I was paralysed. When he made me caress him and he grew hard beneath my hand, I felt a coldness in my heart. I knew that if I didn’t get away, I would die, that my heart would just freeze and crack open. So I stopped being me. I willed myself into the body and mind of the girl on the ice. The silver sequins on her dress became my armour, protecting me, drawing the light to me, repelling the darkness. It was the first time in my life that I felt safe. Of course, the feeling didn’t last. It didn’t take me long to learn that women are never safe.”
Solange picked up the crust of her sandwich and threw it angrily towards the water. Mr. Birkbeck rose from his sleep, snapped the bread in mid-air and collapsed. Solange turned to me. “You have to play, too, Joanne. We all must take our turn. What’s your metaphor?”
Her fierce vulnerability caught me off balance. “I don’t know,” I said. I touched the midnight-blue cloth. “I guess I was like Ariel. I wanted it all – the sun, the moon, the stars, blossoms, buds, and fruit – everything. What I got was a marriage that was good most of the time, terrific kids, dogs, a house. Naama would say I was an unevolved woman, but it was enough.”
Solange had revealed too much to let me get away with less. “You compare yourself with Ariel, but she wanted more than a house with a picket fence. That’s your true metaphor, Joanne, and when your husband died the little fence came down and you had to go out into the big world and become a person in your own right.”
“I was always a person in my own right,” I said loudly, hoping Solange would mistake vehemence for the ring of truth.
She didn’t buy it. “I disagree,” she said flatly. “Perhaps I’m wrong. I didn’t know you then, but when you’re with your old friend Howard Dowhanuik, I see vestiges of the woman you were. You defer to him. You’re not the person I saw at Ariel’s vigil.”
I was at a loss; so was everyone else. There was no way the game could go forward. Three of us had revealed ourselves, three were left. But asking Molly or Drew Warren to come up with the metaphor that encapsulated their early dreams was beyond cruel, and Gert struck me as a woman who would rather gut a fish than float a flight of fancy.
Unwittingly, Solange gave us another focus. When she attempted to toss the rest of her sandwich to Mr. Birkbeck, her throw was clumsy. The crust hit the water, and after a lazy catcher’s dive, so did Mr. Birkbeck. The splash he made flushed out a bald eagle that struggled briefly then caught an updraft. Absorbed, we watched as the eagle soared, became an infinitesimal speck, then vanished in the cloudless sky.
“My daughter always said that if we saw an eagle the weekend we opened the cottage, it would be a great summer.”
An aching silence followed Drew’s words. Gentleman that he was, he recognized his gaffe and tried to put us at ease. He fingered the top button of his golf shirt, straightening the knot of the necktie that wasn’t there. “I don’t know if you remember back to the mid-sixties when there was such concern about the bald eagle becoming extinct,” he said. “They discovered that bald eagles that summered here in the north weren’t declining at the same rate as other eagles. It was because northern Saskatchewan wasn’t being sprayed with pesticides – DDT and the like – so the population of bald eagles remained constant.”
On the day of his daughter’s burial, Drew’s earnest drone about why the eagles of northern Saskatchewan had escaped extinction might have seemed bizarre, but it did the trick. Despite ourselves, we were diverted. My mind went into free fall, stopping at a memory from twenty years before. Mieka’s grade-two class had held a career morning. My daughter, always a foot-dragger when it came to school projects, had been too late to sign up for a visit to one of the glamour-job sites like the courtroom or the pizzeria. She and the rest of the stragglers had been stuck with visiting the offices of Drew Warren’s investment firm, and I had been the parent-volunteer. Drew had tried hard to engage the children. He asked them how much allowance they were given and pointed out that, by depositing even the smallest sum each week, they could make their money grow. He had shown them how to make images of their hands on his photocopier. He even brought out Monopoly money and some outdated stock certificates to let the kids build their own stock portfolios. Nothing worked. The children were eye-rollingly bored. Crestfallen, Drew walked us to the elevator. Then inspiration hit. He ran back into his office and returned with booty: two pencils and a stenographer’s notepad for each child.
Drew’s discourse upon eagles on the day of his daughter’s burial might have struck a stranger as insensitive, but it came from the same impulse as his last-minute gift of pencils and a notepad twenty years before. He was what my son Angus characterized as a pleaser – a person driven by an almost pathological need to avoid wounding others. “First, do no harm.” Apparently, the chromosome for stunning blond good looks hadn’t been the only inheritance passed from father to dau
ghter.
Eager to put an end to another awkward silence, Gert jumped up and slapped her right hand against her thigh. “Come on. Let’s walk off those sandwiches. May’s a pretty time for the island. The new moss is soft as a baby’s bum. And who knows? We might see another eagle. They’re always on the lookout for easy fishing and a nice air current.” She leaned towards Molly and lowered her voice. “You’ll want to see the rock paintings today.”
Molly nodded. “Yes,” she said, “I’ll want to see the rock paintings today.” She pulled herself to her feet, bent and picked up the box that contained her daughter’s ashes. Quick as a recruit in an honour guard, Fraser retrieved the cloth, folded it the way flags are folded at military funerals, and handed it to Molly. She looked at him levelly. “I’m glad Ariel found you,” she said.
Drew led us single file along a trail that bore the marks of nature’s effort to reclaim it over the winter. The path was blocked by rocks and fallen tree branches, and melting snow had eroded the line separating trail and wilderness. New moss was everywhere. Idly, I wondered what Blake, who had seen “a world in a grain of sand/And a heaven in a wild flower,” would make of vegetation which, flowerless and rootless, still managed to carpet the harsh terrain of a northern island in a green of surpassing tenderness.
To see the paintings, we had to scramble down an embankment and walk back along the shoreline. The lake was high, so most of the beach was underwater. As I leaned back to look up at the rock face, I could feel the water seeping into my boots, but a soaker was a small price to pay for seeing the rock paintings.
There were three of them. One was of a thunderbird holding a bolt of lightning; one was a circle that appeared to hold clouds and an animal, perhaps a bear; the third was on a part of the rock that had been cleft. The circle that framed the picture inside was broken, the drawing inside beyond interpretation.