Fit to Die

by Joan Boswell

  Before Emily could get the scotch, the doorbell rang. Laurene opened the door, ushered herself into the living room and sat at the bridge table. “Ready to play, girls?” she trilled, sweeping the cards into a perfect semi-circle so that we could cut for deal.

  I was amazed at how smoothly we cut the cards and took seats opposite our partners. Mine was Emily for the first rubber, and it comforted me to see her calm face across the table. My nervousness receded, curling itself into a twitching, aching lump in my stomach.

  Naturally, Laurene drew the highest card and dealt the first hand. “It’s a shame you all missed my Tuesday class,” she said, snapping the cards down with the precision of a drill sergeant. “I discussed strategy. For example, you may use any legal ploy to mislead your opponents, such as false discards, or looking worried when you know perfectly well how to play the hand.”

  “I think I’ll practise looking worried today,” I said. Marion kicked my foot.

  Marion, who was Laurene’s partner, opened the bidding with one heart. Laurene raised it to four hearts and promptly got up to lean over Marion’s shoulder and supervise her play after I led the ace of spades. Marion looked grim, but she made an overtrick.

  “You should have led another spade for Emily to trump,” Laurene said to me. “Weren’t you counting the cards? You could have prevented us taking the overtrick.”

  “I forgot to count anything but trumps.”

  Laurene shook her head, a sorrowful look on her face.

  It took less than two hours to stumble through our usual three rubbers and, to no one’s surprise, Laurene garnered the most points. “I was at the top of my form today,” she said. “I’m certainly ready for the brownie contest.”

  Emily carried in the three maraschino-topped brownies on three delicate china plates of different design and put them on the end table beside Laurene’s chair. Marion served coffee. I sat twiddling with my cup and wishing I were somewhere else. Anywhere else.

  “These look lovely,” Laurene said. “Did you all use the same recipe?”

  “No,” Emily replied. “We thought it would be more interesting if we each tried something different.”

  “Ah, but that will make them more difficult to judge. You should have thought of duplicate bridge, where all the partnerships play exactly the same hands. It’s an excellent approach because no luck is involved, only skill. Winston and I adored playing duplicate when we lived in Vancouver. I have almost a thousand master points, you know.”

  We knew.

  Laurene picked up the brownie from the plate with pink roses and took a bite. She chewed slowly, raising her gaze to the ceiling as if communing with her taste buds by long distance. I tried to go on breathing; it was my brownie she was eating.

  “Hmm. Tasty, though perhaps a little dry.” She dabbed at her lips with a serviette and sipped coffee before attacking the brownie on the bluebell plate. Marion shifted restlessly in her chair.

  When the second brownie had disappeared down Laurene’s throat, she said: “Acceptably moist, but the chocolate was rather overshadowed by peppermint. The use of artificial flavouring requires a light touch, girls.”

  The third brownie was on a daffodil plate. Laurene tasted it, frowned, tasted it again. My palms were sweating. “At first I thought there was far too much sugar in this one, but there is an underlying bitter tang. Perhaps unsweetened chocolate? Interesting, though.” She finished the brownie and held out her cup as a hint she was ready for a refill.

  “So give us the word,” Marion said. “Which brownie takes the prize?”

  Laurene smiled. “Definitely the second one. It had the proper moist texture and the right chocolate smoothness. Go easy on the peppermint next time, though.”

  “Congratulations, Marion,” Emily said, pouring second coffees for all of us.

  Marion rose, gave a mock curtsey and took a brownie from the plate Emily had placed beside the cream and sugar on the coffee table.

  “Oh, but girls,” Laurene said, “where are your maraschino cherries? Those brownies are plain.”

  Emily’s face went pale. I said quickly, “No one likes them but you, Laurene. We put them on yours as a special treat. As a reward for judging, you might say.”

  “Well, aren’t you sweet,” she said. “They do look delicious, even without the cherries. But I’ll pass. Winston and I are guests of honour at the Rotary Club dinner tonight. I mustn’t ruin my appetite.”

  Twenty excruciating minutes later, Laurene finally put her coat on.

  “I should leave, too,” Marion said. “Harvey and I are going to the movies tonight. American Beauty is on. The one that won all the Academy Awards, remember?”

  Laurene stood in the open doorway, smiling. “You’ll love the movie. And you’ll never guess the ending. Kevin Spacey’s character gets shot.” She left, and Emily waved at her from the front window as she drove away.

  Marion, face red, slammed her fist on the coffee table, bouncing the brownies on their plate. “Not only did she ruin the movie for me, but now I’ll have to sit through it while Harvey watches.” She shoved a brownie in her mouth and bit down as if it was Laurene’s neck. “And to think that for a moment there I was regretting this brownie caper.”

  We retreated to the kitchen to help Emily wash cups and plates. “Barbara, what did you put in your brownie?” Marion asked, drying the same cup for the third time.

  “Amanita mushroom. The death angel.”

  “I used methanol and a lot of peppermint essence to cover the taste. What about you, Emily?”

  “Mashed ripe privet berries. And a great deal of sugar to hide the bitterness.” Emily polished the sink. “I was so afraid she’d catch on when she asked about the cherries. Thank you for your quick thinking, Barbara.”

  “I was terrified she’d eat a fourth piece and find out it tasted different yet again from the others,” Marion said. “For sure she’d have wanted to know why.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Emily said. “Now we just have to wait. Two of those poisons take several hours to work.”

  “A grand slam,” I said, “doubled and redoubled, if all three work. Will you pour me a scotch, Emily? Waiting will be the worst of all. What if she finds out? What if the police find out?”

  • • •

  By ten the following morning, I was such a wreck that I invited myself to Emily’s for coffee and moral support. Marion arrived a few minutes later.

  “I’d put some Drambuie in the coffee,” Emily said, “but if anyone comes asking questions, it won’t look good if we’re all drunk before noon.”

  We settled into our usual soft chairs, drank the rocket fuel that Emily calls coffee and gazed out the window at the clear-cut scarred mountain. There seemed to be nothing to say. Twenty minutes later, the phone rang.

  Marion and I listened as Emily murmured, “Oh, dear,” and “I’m so sorry,” not once, but several times. When she hung up, she said, “Our grand slam didn’t work.”

  The blood drained from my face and the starch from my knees. “What do you mean, it didn’t work?”

  Emily patted my hand. “It’s all right, Barbara. Laurene was killed on the way home from her cake decorating class yesterday afternoon. A logging truck rammed her car into that stone wall the other side of the bridge. The car was crushed almost flat and, fortunately, she died instantly. Then the car burst into flames, and the firemen had a terrible time putting it out. Laurene’s body was virtually destroyed.”

  “Oh my God, we’re in the clear,” Marion said, a trace of hysteria in her voice.

  “Yes,” said Emily thoughtfully. “Apparently Winston is going to lay criminal charges before he goes back to Vancouver.”

  Marion’s face paled to ghastly grey, and her voice quavered. “Why? Who? Emily, what are you saying?”

  Emily smiled. “Winston is going to charge the truck driver. The man said Laurene was weaving all over the road and driving on the wrong side.”

  “That would be the privet berr
ies.” I clutched my coffee mug in shaking fingers. “They’re supposed to take a couple of hours or less.”

  Emily nodded. “Winston is sure the man is lying; he says Laurene was always in the right.”

  LEA TASSIE grew up on a northern British Columbia homestead. One of her short stories, “Guardians”, won Storyteller’s 1999 Great Canadian Short Story contest. Tour Into Danger, a suspense novel, is due out in 2001. She’s working on two novels, one serious and one a romp with two crazy cats.

  SEEING RED

  LINDA WIKEN

  She couldn’t run any faster. There was no escape. She tried to lengthen her stride, but it kept pace. She stumbled and almost pitched into the darkness. Get up. Run. The house. She had to reach the house and mommy. She needed her mommy. Keep going. Don’t look back. Almost there. The house. With locked door. It wouldn’t open. She pounded. She cried out for her mommy. Don’t leave me. And then woke to the sound.

  Hannah Price jerked bolt upright in bed, gasping to reach total consciousness. Trying to shake off the dream. Her heart was pounding too fast in her chest. It’s only a dream. She tried deep breathing. It helped. She glanced at the bedside clock, 5:30 a.m. A shard of sunlight cut across her bed. Time to run. Shake off the night and the dream.

  She groaned and rolled out of bed, jerking to a stop as a pain shot through her left hip. Running had brought that on again. She’d known it would happen. But she needed the high, needed to escape the horror of what was happening, if only for an hour.

  As she pulled on a grey cotton T-shirt and nylon shorts, she listened for sounds from the next room. Carrying her Rykas, she crept along the hall and opened the door to her mother’s room. She heard the same raspy breathing she’d heard last time she’d checked, a couple of hours ago. She longed to go to her mother, crawl into bed beside her, wrap her arms around her and make everything all right. Why her, God?

  Once outside the house, Hannah went through her routine of stretches while sorting a mental list of tasks for later in the day. Then she started down the gravel driveway at a medium lope, waiting until she reached the main road before going all out. She didn’t expect much traffic at this hour. Maybe on the way back, the occasional car would be transporting its load of office workers into Victoria for the day.

  Hannah had no idea if that included the neighbours who were only a mailbox at the road’s edge about fifty metres along. They were new to the area, moved in long after Hannah had left home for the promised land of Vancouver. Her monthly visits home were filled with her mother. There was no need to look for others to socialize with. And now that she’d come back to nurse her mom, she didn’t want anyone else intruding. She wanted this time alone with her, to stretch out every moment of their final days together as long as possible.

  Nobody loves you like your mom.

  Ain’t that the truth, thought Hannah, especially when there’s no one else in your life to love you. And soon there wouldn’t even be Mom.

  No-body-loves-you-like-your-mom. It fit her stride. No-body-loves-you-like-your-mom. Her mantra for today. Block out all other thoughts. The ones she couldn’t cope with.

  • • •

  “So what’s it to be for lunch today, a decadent chicken broth or an exotic pea soup?” Hannah tried not to stare at her mother as she straightened the bedding.

  Five months of fighting ovarian cancer had reduced her to a body with sharply angled bones stretching a covering of translucent skin, a sharp contrast to the bright red and yellow scarf tied around her head. Her days were spent entirely in bed, mainly sleeping. Her short waking periods were filled with Hannah reading to her and, each afternoon, a visit from a home care worker.

  “I don’t know, Hannah. Surprise me.” Her lips slid apart in a strained smile.

  Death warmed over. The phrase, unbidden, leapt into Hannah’s brain. She swallowed hard to allow an answer through the massive knot blocking her throat.

  “O.K., Mom—a surprise it is.”

  She tried to think of some variation from the bland items that had become the daily food fare as she cranked up the volume on the Graco monitor in the kitchen. She’d had it installed last month, a convenience that allowed her to eavesdrop on her mom’s bodily noises. Nothing was private any more. There’s very little dignity in a painful death, thought Hannah. Her eyes filled with tears, and she quickly poured herself a glass of water from the ceramic rooster pitcher kept in the fridge. Hannah ran both hands along its orange and yellow contours, a link to her childhood, a happy time with just the two of them and the assortment of four-legged creatures that were a part of the family unit from time to time. None of the pets had survived, and soon there’d be only Hannah. She can’t leave me. I still need her.

  She shook her head and finished drinking the water, then opened a can of broth, adding some fresh mint and rosemary once it started heating, sniffing the aroma. A comfort food from a happier time. The doorbell startled her. She glanced at the aging round clock that hung above the sink. Another childhood memory. She turned the element to simmer and went to open the front door.

  She knew this face but couldn’t quite place it. Something familiar. That smile, so damned sure of himself. It couldn’t be. No. The son-of-a-bitch was back. “What the hell do you want?” She stared at Dan O’Connor, debating whether to slam the door in his face.

  As if he read her thoughts, he stuck his foot in the door and held out his right hand in appeal. “Hannah? It is you, isn’t it? You’re all grown up. Please, Hannah. Can’t we call a truce? I’d like to see Carolyn. I do still love her, you know.”

  Hannah couldn’t look him in the eyes. She’d never been able to, even as a kid. She concentrated instead on the mass of wrinkles etched on his tanned face and the greying hair. He’d aged in the seventeen years since she’d last seen him. The night of her twelfth birthday party. The night he’d walked out of their lives; one of the happiest nights she’d known in the five years he’d lived with them. The worst part was she knew her Mother still thought about him. She refused to believe it was love. But her Mother would want to see him.

  Hannah pulled the door open wide. “She’s in her bedroom. I’m just making her lunch.” She turned her back on him and went to dish out the soup.

  How dare he? He thinks he can just waltz back into our lives. The bastard.

  She rushed pouring the soup into a mug, spilling some onto the counter and floor. She threw the dishrag on the largest puddle and plunked the soup mug on the tray, spilling some more. Damn him. When she joined them in the bedroom, Dan was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding Carolyn’s hand. Hannah flinched and bit back an acerbic comment.

  “You’ll need to move, Dan.” That’s my place.

  “Of course.” He leaned over and kissed Carolyn on the cheek. “I’ll just go and put away my things. I’m in the guest room, I presume?”

  “Yes, my dear.” Carolyn patted his hand then looked at Hannah. “So, what’s my surprise to be?”

  The guest room? Hannah busied herself helping her Mom sit up, and with setting up the bed tray, wanting Dan to be out of the room before she spoke.

  “Did you know about this?” she asked, guiding spoonfuls of the liquid to her mother’s mouth.

  Carolyn nodded. “Yes, he called the other day while you were out. I should have told you.” She paused, struggling to catch her breath. “I wanted to see him. Please, Hannah, try to understand.”

  “All I understand is that life was hell when he was living with us. He was always butting in.”

  “He was your father.”

  “No. He was your husband. And the two of you were always arguing. Then he ups and walks out. And I thought that was great, but you were miserable for a long time after. And now, after all these years, he turns up in our lives again and you welcome him in. That I don’t understand.”

  Carolyn closed her eyes. “I thought you’d grown up.”

  The words stung. Hannah blinked back the tears. Here he was, dividing them again, now when her mom w
as dying. The bastard.

  “O.K. Mom, I’ll be civil to him.” Just don’t be mad at me.

  “Thank you, dear.” Carolyn reached for her hand, but Hannah barely felt the weak squeeze.

  Dan returned as Hannah prepared to take the tray away. Time to be nice. “I usually read to Mom a while after lunch. Would you like to do that?”

  “Yes, I would. Thank you, Hannah.”

  She left as Dan sat down and stroked the side of Carolyn’s face, left before her anger erupted.

  She closed the door to her room and stripped, changing into shorts and sports bra. She had to get out of there, run off some of the tension. The temperature had risen, making it too balmy for late September. Indian summer. A last chance for the heat of summer. But there’d be no last chance for her mom. On her way out she stopped at the open bedroom door. Dan had made himself very comfortable.

  “I’m going out for a run. Won’t be long.”

  She didn’t wait for an answer. She had to get out of there. She hit the laneway at top speed and didn’t slow down until she’d done half her route, down the road, up a dirt trail through the woods and over to the cliff.

  Her foot caught the tip of a stick and she stumbled, pitching towards the edge. She grabbed a low-hanging branch to stop her fall. Her whole body shook, her heart pounded in her ears. It was a long way down to the shoreline. She bent over from the waist, breathing hard.

  She couldn’t catch her breath. She never ran out of breath. Hadn’t since her early days of running. She straightened, avoiding looking straight down, and did some leg stretches, then sat on a log well back from the edge, staring out at the ocean. Breathe slowly. Relax. She used to love coming here to sit and watch, sometimes to dream about sailing across that open expanse of water to whatever was beyond. Maybe all the way to Japan. Just relax.

  Of course, in those days, she’d fantasized about a special guy going along with her. Well, guess what, he’d never materialized. Lots of false tries but never Mr. Right. One analyst had said it was because no one could compare to her father, the father she never knew, a memory she’d assembled from bits and pieces of other men. The warm laugh of a friend’s father. The dark, haunting looks of a magazine model. The togetherness of television’s Walton family. She didn’t know anything about him; her mother had always refused to discuss him. She didn’t even know his name, but that was okay, he was always “my daddy”. She’d woven a rich fantasy life for the three of them. Before Dan had come along.