“She had another one about a brawl at the airport,” says Shanna, voice low. “A fellow is knocking his wife around, and someone steps in, and soon they’re all into it.”
“She must be imagining things.”
“With Joyce, people get nervous because she names names,” says Shanna. “She doesn’t say, the priest ran off with a woman in the choir. With Joyce it’s, Father So-and-So ran off with Mrs. Such-and-Such. That’s going to cause trouble. And she gets a bit racy. They ran off to Clarenville and broke the bed at the Holiday Inn, that sort of thing.”
A man with a full head of rippling white hair stands and tosses the ball quickly, looking embarrassed. But when the pins fly he claps his hands and kicks a leg in delight.
“So Billy George, one of our oldest residents, well into his nineties, he starts talking the other day,” says Shanna. “He’s out hunting rabbits one summer. There was no rabbit season back then. You could go anytime. He sleeps in a lean-to out in the woods, and in the morning an airplane passes overhead. Maritime Airways, flying awfully low. Then he hears a terrible noise, and he starts walking toward it, and it’s in pieces. Dead bodies everywhere.”
The nurses applaud heartily as the pins scatter again. Joyce has been watching the game with a rigid smile like he’s never seen before. Her eyes move quickly to follow the action. She doesn’t seem to see Carter and Shanna.
“He tries to help, but there’s nothing to be done. All dead. So he starts walking back to the airport to tell them what he saw. And at his feet there’s a biscuit tin with barely a scratch on it. He’s ravenous, so he eats the biscuits while he walks. Joyce got upset.”
“Was she angry?”
“She just said, ‘Stop it. Stop it.’ Turned her head like she was trying to block it out.” Shanna twists her head and shoulders and tucks her chin. “And Billy seemed pleased with himself. Like he wanted to upset people. Or maybe he’s getting Joyce back for the stories she told.” Shanna checks her watch and claps encouragement for the next bowler, a small woman reluctant to release a hand from her walker. “You can see how it might not be so healthy to have them share these things. And if the families get wind of it…”
They watch the woman with the walker, a nurse holding her from behind and cradling her arm. “When I swings your arm, you let go the ball,” says the nurse. Surely this woman needs the next level of care more than Joyce.
“They talked about moving her to the place down by the lake,” says Carter, as the ball bounces high, clearing the pins altogether.
“New Horizons.”
“Maybe you could vouch for her? So she can stay here?”
“Nobody wants to see mom or dad sent there,” says Shanna. “They all think it’s for someone else.”
Joyce takes the ball and bowls without hesitation. Her throw veers left. Too much English on it. Looks to be a clear miss, but it clips the edge of the last row. The red pin falls, and the green one next to it, and surely the others will follow. She has already turned away.
“There won’t be any storytelling down there,” says Shanna. “It would turn into an awful racket down there.”
//////
On their last full day, the team takes one more crack at the 1954 Canso, this time with Hawco as a guide.
“You got to take the long way in, from the airport,” says Hawco. “Even then it gets mucky. No solid ground out that way.”
“Everything okay at home?” asks Andi, as they set out on the spongy clearing at the end of the runway.
“Yeah,” says Carter.
“Your boy, and then your poor ex-wife. What an awful week for you.”
“Minty berries,” says Hawco, plucking from a bush at his feet. The berries are white and dusty, as if rolled in icing sugar. “Really nice.” He tosses them in his mouth.
“A friend of mine, his mother died while his parents were getting divorced,” says Morris. “So it got really complicated. I hope you don’t have to deal with anything like that.”
“No,” says Carter, trying for curt finality.
“Coyote scat,” says Hawco, as they gather around what appears to be a deposit of ordinary dog shit. “They’re thriving these last few years. You hear them at night. And moose droppings here too. Watch your step.”
They begin to follow him more closely, seeing the woods through his eyes. Fresh sawdust at the foot of a spruce means termites, which will have it hollowed out by summer’s end. A bird skipping along the ground is a whiskey jack, and will come eat from your hand if you’re still long enough. Clusters of bright red berries are plum boys—“That’s what we always called them”—with a rich raspberry flavour. Another bird departs a tree with the blurring flick of a branch. “Grouse, I believe,” says Hawco.
Their boots are splashing with every step now, and they straddle an ankle-high stream. Hawco stops and reaches into the water, coming up with a frog no bigger than his thumb. “You’ll never go hungry in the woods,” he says, and drops the creature at his feet.
Terry squints at his GPS. “Now,” he says. “I believe…I believe…”
A departing jet casts a quick shadow over them.
“According to my notes, there ought to be a pond here,” says Terry. He pulls out a photograph and examines it.
High grass obscures the ground, which smells deeply of rot. Terry double-checks the coordinates. Red runs the metal detector, and they all hear the telltale click of the needle as it hits the high end of its scale. “There’s a ton of crap under here. Maybe the whole thing sank?”
“Let me see,” says Hawco. He takes the picture from Terry and holds it up against the horizon. Steps forward and drops a few inches. “Okay, nobody goes any further than this,” he says, extending arms like a tightrope walker. “Missy with the camera,” he says.
“Andi.”
“Andi, love, come here with that camera.”
She advances slowly, each step announced with a squelch. Hawco mutters instructions. She takes a few careful steps to the right, sinks slightly, stabilizes, and raises her camera. A flickering horsefly descends, lights at her waist, and makes its way to a protruding shoulder blade as the shutter fires repeatedly. “Can I get a hand here?” she says.
Carter finds a path. He and Andi lock forearms, she tugs with her back leg and swears as the foot comes free, leaving the boot behind. Soaks her white sock reaching to get it back.
Retreating to safe territory, they compare the pictures. The dog-eared photo is a black-and-white of shimmering water, with a shadowed mass emerging at an angle. A note scribbled in the border identifies the object as Maritime Air Canso 1954 – 11 killed. The window of Andi’s camera shows the grassy marsh, spreading out in almost the exact same shape as the water in the old photo.
“And look at the horizon,” says Terry. “It’s a perfect match. This is the place. You’d never know anything happened here.”
“Can that happen?” asks Carter. “A pond can disappear like that?”
“There’s a gully out to our cabin, not half the size it was when I was a boy,” says Hawco.
Red gives the metal detector another wave. The needle clicks frantically.
//////
“Let me tell you now,” says Terry. “I’ll tell you how they found the Dolan crash, just a few miles east of here. She went down in the middle of winter, see? And they didn’t know where, exactly.”
They’re nearly back to the cars, but the blackflies are out. Hawco found a nearly dry trail for the return trip, so they can keep a quick pace. Terry shouting his story so they can all hear.
“They had—”
Red grunts, waving an arm around her. Carter tugs at his clothes, like the flies are underneath and all over him.
“Fuckin’ cunts,” growls Morris, swiping at an ear.
“Car,” shouts Andi as they round a birch grove, and she breaks into a sprint.
<
br /> They toss the gear aboard and seal themselves in the two cars, phones going off as they slam doors. They’re back in cell range. Carter has two missed calls from North Bay Kevin.
“Oh my Jesus,” says Hawco, swiping at the windshield to kill intruders.
“After the crash,” says Terry. “And…a trapper…out—” He gasps for breath.
“Fuckers,” says Morris, and slaps his window, leaving a bloody smear. He and Carter are in the back seat, with Terry and Hawco in the front.
Carter hits callback as the car starts moving. We’ve never met, have we, Kevin? But we were in the same house once. I waited in her bed while she sat you down in the kitchen and told you to fuck off back to North Bay.
“Mr. Carter. Right. Thanks so much for ringing us back. I was calling in my capacity as Leah’s executor. She had asked me to clarify some things for you.”
“Now’s not a great time, actually.” Carter’s voice trembles as the car rolls over broken pavement. “Can we set a time to talk later?”
“I’m afraid I’m busy later. But I understand the producer will be sending along the songs.”
“What?”
“Jordan Toytman. The producer. He oversaw the project. He’ll send you the completed songs.” The smooth Irish lilt is off-putting.
Carter turns toward the car door and covers the phone with a hand. “I think there’s a misunderstanding. Jordan and I will be working on the songs. That deal is in place.” He adopts Kevin’s formal tone as the car passes the old town site and the Globe Theatre dig.
“Ah, no.” There’s the Irish thing again, crooning nooo like they’re out for a pint. “No, the project has been completed. Your performance and songwriting credits will be—”
“The project hasn’t started yet. We were waiting…” This guy hasn’t got a clue. Never did. “We’re going to honour her work, so…”
“Leah had no wish to return to the music.” Kevin is firmer now, like they’re arguing over a pint. “You left her no choice. I helped with the financials. Reluctantly, I have to admit.”
Morris turns to the back window of the car, slapping wildly at blackflies with his hoody. Carter shakes his foot, the pulse racing in his arch. “That’s…it’s illegal, without my knowledge.”
“We held to the letter of your band agreement,” says Kevin. “Leah and the lads, Will Conway, Colin Stevenson. They all signed off on it.”
“Colin?”
“We brought in a few session players. Played a bit of guitar meself after. Your songwriting and performance credits will be honoured, if there’s income.”
This dickhead is talking about something else altogether. Probably Leah had old tapes of a couple of tunes and decided to finish them. “Okay. You send me those songs and whatever else you have. I appreciate being kept in the loop. But where did she find Colin?”
“He gave his approval from the west coast. Lives there picking fruit. Fallen on hard times, I suppose. If you have further questions, I’ll put you on to our lawyer.”
What a dick. Morris hands him the jacket. “Get the ones on your side?”
The car picks up speed as it hits the highway. Terry will skirt the town rather than drive through it to meet the women at Mitch’s Lounge. Carter lashes at the flies, but they scatter with the breeze from each swing, and the rear window is angled to prevent a direct hit. He’ll call Jordan tonight. If Leah finished a couple of songs on her own, they can live with it.
“Whoa!” cries Gilly.
Carter grips the seatback as the car pulls at him. Morris pitches forward and back. There is a brief screeching of tires behind them. A shadow crosses the car. Carter turns to his window. “The other way,” says Morris. “No, you missed it.”
“Did you see the fucking antlers?” Terry pulls the car to the shoulder.
“That was a monster.” Hawco cracks his window.
“If that was even a second later, we wouldn’t have been able to stop.”
20
Always too many of them everywhere. In and out of her room. Hello, Joyce! Morning, Mrs. Carter! Going through her things, telling her how to dress, scrubbing and vacuuming, delivering pills in little paper cups. And talk coming out of them the whole time. Through dinner and through her bath. They wouldn’t even leave her be on the toilet.
She made sure they left her alone with her whiskey. Bring me a drink and go on about your business. She made that clear from the start.
“One of you is enough,” she said to the second boy in the car. “You can go on and do something else.”
“That’s alright, missus,” said the boy, reaching across to pull her seatbelt snug to her chest. “We’ll have you home for tea in no time.”
But she didn’t want him sitting right there, next to her. There was a big fellow up front to drive, and that was enough. Why did they always have to be on top of you?
“Is she buckled in?” asked the big one in the front.
“Yes, we’re ready to roll,” said the boy, doing his own belt.
“I don’t need the both of you.”
The boy laughed. “We’re all along for the ride, missus.” He was fine-looking, though. Spotless face, and rings of hair like you just took the curlers out. The fellow up front, she couldn’t tell. All she could see was a greasy mat of black hair at the back of his head.
They hit a bump and tossed in their seats. “Oh!” said Joyce, and put a hand to the seat in front of her. The boy touched her arm.
“It’s just a visit to the doctor, missus. We’ll be done in no time.”
Joyce didn’t want to see any doctor. But there was no point in complaining about it. Want or don’t want—that was all over for her.
It was a hot day, with the empty sky turning a deeper blue at the horizon. She saw flashes of it between houses, the blue behind tall backyard trees.
“This is Memorial Drive,” she said. She knew the long driveways, the generous spaces between houses.
“That’s right.” The boy touched her arm again.
“I’m not going to that place down by the lake,” said Joyce.
“It’s just to see the doctor, missus.” But they were turning onto the highway, and the lake was out there, just down the hill.
“Can you stop the car?” She raised her voice to reach the big one up front.
He turned, and she got a good look at him now. Thick head and fleshy shoulders. Freckled.
“There a problem back there, Boyd?”
“No, no. We’re just going to the hospital now, Missus Carter.”
The big one caught Joyce’s eye in the rearview mirror. Probably Scottish, with the freckles, and that fierce look they get. “You’re alright now, aren’t you, missus? We’re just out for a little jaunt, that’s all. Don’t you mind Boyd. Boyd don’t know the war’s over.”
She looked at the boy. But he stared straight ahead and didn’t answer.
“Eric is like you,” said Joyce. “Brazen, like. Knows he’s a charmer. Can’t help it.”
The boy rubbed his ear. The big one was poking at his dashboard, and thin music came from the door. It was down around her knees, a reedy voice with an empty wash of rhythm behind it.
“Don’t turn on that radio,” said Joyce. She hated the way they always had the radio going. Always in the hallway and in the kitchen. Every door you passed was another big racket. A wonder she wasn’t gone deaf.
“Shut it off, Reg,” said the boy at her side. The big one turned and wrinkled his face.
She felt sorry then, and envied them.
“You don’t even know what it’s like to have a baby fight you,” she said. “Twisting away because he doesn’t know his own hunger.” What was the point of telling them more? They’d never need to know how finally you get the baby to feed and he’s like a dog on a bone. Little bolts of pain right through you. Then he spits up the
blood he draws, pink milk shooting all over you, and all over his sleeper. And of course the nurse makes a spiteful sound and whisks the baby away as if you wouldn’t know how to get him clean. Then she’s back, saying “Get yourself covered up now, Mrs. Carter. Your husband’s here.” Snapping at you. “And that’s what I won’t,” says Joyce. They don’t like that very much, a woman deciding for herself what her husband can see.
“I couldn’t wait to get free of those nurses,” she said. But she wasn’t home two days before Herbert shows the pimples behind his lips, creamy white ones. He’s got the thrush, got it from her own milk.
“Like I fed him poison,” she said. Her companions in the car pretended not to hear. Young boys, hardly off the tit themselves.
Joyce turned to the good-looking boy and saw three white scars stroked across his chin. So he was a clumsy one. Like Herbert. Though was any boy as inelegant as Herbert? All arms and legs and that big head smashing into everything like a wrecking ball. Falling out the car door and pitching over the handlebars of his bike.
She gripped the armrest as the car took a turn.
“You see, missus?” said the big one. “It’s just the hospital. You been here many times, I’m sure.”
The car curved around back, where a narrow road hugged the rear of the building. They stopped in a shaded spot tucked between a brick wall and a grassy square. A man was driving a tractor over the grass, a little green thing whining and sputtering. The square ran up to thick woods, and the woods sloped all the way down to the lake.
“You see?” said the boy. “We’re not taking you to Horizons.”
It’s her fault, the thrush. That’s what her mother would say. Your own fault for having all those bad thoughts. She’s always thinking them. Even when the baby settles down and he’s lovely, with big eyes and bubbles popping at his lips. Gurgling like he’s laughing. Even in those moments she’s thinking terrible things, and there’s an awful dread when Arthur’s on his way home from work. She doesn’t know why. She can hear her mother. It’s alright to think bad thoughts. But if you let them linger they spoil your milk, and the milk spoils the baby.
The End of Music Page 27