When Boomers Go Bad

by Joan Boswell

  Then the veil lifted from Gwen’s eyes, and she saw Charlie for what he was.

  “On a Wednesday!” She glanced through her kitchen window at Watson’s house. Not just any Wednesday, but the alternate Wednesday, the Wednesday Barty Watson, with dog in tow, disappeared, not returning until late at night. “Oh, my!”

  Hurriedly Gwen retrieved one of the empty burlap bags she used for storing potatoes from the basement. She tugged on her garden gloves for protection. Then she rushed outdoors.

  “Charlie, my darling,” she greeted him. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you.” She had considerable difficulty getting Charlie into the bag, but finally she managed it. She knotted the top and hauled the bag back downstairs into her cool, dry basement. “You’ll be fine here.”

  Gwen readied everything while she waited until sunset, even putting on her cardigan against the coming night’s chill. Then, with Watson and his dog long gone, she hauled the aluminum extension ladder out of her garage and lugged it over to Watson’s. After laying the ladder down in the grass behind Watson’s house, Gwen went back and retrieved a long length of rope, her husband’s sheathed hunting knife and the heavy bag containing Charlie. Once she’d deposited these on Watson’s lawn, she raised the ladder and extended it until it leaned against the edge of Watson’s roof. Then she picked up the bag, the length of rope, stuffed the knife into the waistband of her jeans and clambered up the ladder.

  Gwen smiled as she pushed herself up the sloping roof to the chimney. Now she knew the reason she’d invested so much time and effort in her tai chi exercises. “The Force is with us,” she whispered and happily hummed the theme from Star Wars.

  She knew the chimney led to the fireplace in the living room. She’d been invited over many times by the previous owners. And as she used the chimney top to pull herself upright, Gwen also knew, with absolute certainty, that the damper would be open. “Okay, Charlie, your turn.” She tied one end of the rope to the top of the bag using the square knot she’d learned in Girl Guides a thousand years ago. Gwen then manipulated the bag until Charlie fit into the flue, drew a long ragged slit with the hunting knife down the bag near the top and lowered Charlie down. Just before the bag reached the hearth, she felt her load lighten as Charlie escaped. Quickly she hauled the empty bag up. “Do what you were created for, Charlie,” she whispered into the chimney. “Kill a rat.” Then she slid back down the roof and clambered down the ladder.

  Gwen sat for a moment in the grass, catching her breath, watching the stars brighten in the darkening sky...feeling quite remarkable. She tucked her hands into the pockets of her cardigan. The fingers of her left hand wrapped round something she’d completely forgotten she’d put there. Another omen. A thrill of elation swept through her.

  Once she hotfooted the ladder home, Gwen poured herself a celebratory drink, then burst into uninhibited laughter as Tic, Tac, then Toe, Isabel’s litter, appeared at her back door. “Salut!” she offered, raising her glass to whatever force or powers that were out there in the wide wide world. Her ankle...her ankle hadn’t felt better in days.

  Gwen rose late the next morning, ate a leisurely breakfast, then changed into her old-lady clothes. The ambulance didn’t appear in Watson’s laneway until noon. The friend, she thought, with a twinge of guilt. But she thought again and wondered if the friend, too, might not be well rid of Bart Watson. What hold might Watson have had on him or her?

  Her ankle began throbbing again. Funny that it would. Nor could she seem to lay her hands on that new pair of glasses she’d recently purchased. A puzzle. Gwen fetched the quad cane and her husband’s old glasses.

  She was ready when she heard the light knock on her front door.

  He was as tall and broad-shouldered, standing on her front step, but not quite as formidable looking, now that she knew him a little, even with that revolver hitched to his hip. Still, Gwen kept a firm grip on the object in the pocket of her cardigan, making sure it didn’t go astray. It was an object the OPP officer would be obliged to regard as evidence.

  “Mrs. Shire,” he greeted her.

  “Constable Bradly,” she responded in kind.

  “It’s about Mr. Watson.”

  She invited him in. He accepted the coke she offered and sat down at her kitchen table where he had sat before. “What’s happened to Mr. Watson?” she asked

  “He’s dead.”

  “Oh.” For the life of her, she couldn’t utter the words “Too bad” or “I’m so sorry”.

  “Heart attack, apparently.”

  “My husband died of a heart attack. It can be very fast.” Gwen offered no other comment, relying on a closed-mouth policy to prevent anything untoward from spilling out. But she tightened her grip on the small, bright-pink vial in her pocket. Watson’s nitroglycerin.

  “There was a snake in Mr. Watson’s bedroom. A black rat snake, eight feet long, that even Watson’s dog was afraid of.” Charlie, Gwen was sure, hardly measured more than six feet. At six feet, with that square-jawed head of a constrictor, Charlie was still impressive.

  “What was a rat snake doing in Mr. Watson’s house?” she asked.

  “It didn’t get in though any window or door. Watson had those locked tight.”

  Gwen arched one eyebrow, hoping she seemed suitably intrigued.

  “Up the drainage pipe into the sump-pump well? In through the garage, somehow, or the dryer vent? You tell me.”

  Gwen did not.

  “According to the experts at the Ministry of Natural Resources, rat snakes are excellent climbers. They get into trees, up ladders into haylofts, hunting their prey. They can even climb brick walls.” Constable Bradly looked out her kitchen window, and she knew he was estimating the height of the tall brick chimney of Mr. Watson’s house. For a moment, Gwen wondered if she were really fooling anyone.

  “Rat snakes are a protected species, you know,” she said.

  “So the Ministry informed me.”

  Gwen knew, then, that Charlie would be okay.

  Constable Bradly finished his coke, picked up his hat and pushed himself to his feet. “About Mr. Watson. I thought you should know.”

  “Thank you for taking the time to tell me.”

  He stood on her front step before he fitted his hat to his head and looked up at the bright blue sky. “It is a beautiful day.”

  That it was, and that Constable Bradly had remarked on it, Gwen took as a very good omen.

  Kathryn Cross’s mysteries have appeared in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine and Woman’s World. Her romance and contemporary fiction has been published, under a name not readily pronounceable, in Australia, South Africa and the UK. Her childrens short stories have been published, under the same name, in the U.K. and the U.S. Kathryn lives near Seeleys Bay, Ontario, with her husband and two cats.

  Empty Nest Syndrome

  He was her last wee baby,

  Her little Bobby Steve,

  And although he was past thirty

  He really shouldn’t leave.

  So she let him sit round drinking

  And watching TV games.

  With her grumpy hubby Robert

  Calling him such bad names.

  “He’s just a big old baby,

  He should be leaving the nest;

  These years without the children

  Are meant to be our best.

  “You are such a big old softy,

  And he’s a parasitic louse

  There are one too many Bobbys

  In this too crowded house.”

  Well, her mother birdy mind knew

  She couldn’t take another fight,

  And her heart knew that her baby bird

  Wasn’t ready for his flight.

  Now the nest isn’t quite empty

  But it’s two instead of three

  ’Cause Big Bobby’s in the back yard

  With worms for company.

  Joy Hewitt Mann

  The Day Before the Wedding

  Liz Palm
er

  And according to the weather office, the hot humid air mass hanging over Eastern Ontario is going to stay with us for the next couple of days. There’s a storm watch for the St. Lawrence area from Kingston to Brockville, so if you’re out enjoying the water, be ready to head for safe harbour. And, folks, our electricity suppliers are warning of brownouts and asking customers...

  Catherine switched off the radio. So much for trying to avoid the heat by choosing late August for the wedding. Taking another hard-boiled egg from the bowl, she rolled it between her palms and began to peel off the cracked shell. She hoped there wouldn’t be a storm before Charles got back with the cake.

  But suppose a major one blew up, a tornado even, and Charles was stuck on the mainland, and the marquee collapsed. The wedding would have to be postponed.

  Blast. How she hated it when the white stuck to the shell. She dropped the pitted egg into the discard bowl and picked up another.

  A delay would give both Charles and Tracey a chance to change their minds. Not that she disliked Tracey. She admired her courage. She just didn’t want her to marry Charles. Tracey’s bravado and courage wouldn’t make up for her lack of education. Eventually, she would become a millstone around his neck.

  Her own millstone, Anna, hunched hawk-like on a stool by the sink, separating paper-thin slices of smoked salmon with her long nails.

  “I’m glad we’re not at home. Toronto must be unbearable.” Catherine wiped her forehead with a paper towel. How did her mother-in-law manage to look so cool? In her apricot linen dress, she could have been presiding over the Ladies Luncheon at St. Matthew’s instead of preparing canapes for the rehearsal.

  “I can only be thankful Charles chose to have his wedding here, on the island, rather than at St. Matthew’s. At least my friends won’t have to witness this debacle.” Anna waved a piece of salmon at Catherine. “You and Hugh don’t seem to care that your only son is marrying that drug addict.”

  “You’re being unfair again. Even you have to admit she has incredible willpower. Imagine the strength it must have taken to drag herself out of the gutter and off the drugs.” More strength than she had, or she would have refused to have Anna move in with them after Chuck, Hugh’s father, died.

  “Once she has him in her clutches, she will revert and take him down with her. I pray every day something will save him.” Anna rinsed her hands and dried them finger by finger. “This sink is much too low. It’s time you replaced it. You’ve done nothing to modernize since you inherited.”

  “We put a new oven in.” Catherine looked round the old cottage kitchen. She loved it the way it was, the way it had always been since she had first come to visit her grandparents. After they died, she came every summer with her parents, and now it belonged to her. Her eyes softened as they took in the warm honey-coloured log walls, the old Findlay stove they still lit on cold spring nights and the hand carved rockers, one each side of the stove. She tried not to think of what would happen when she passed the place on to Charles and Tracey.

  “It’s like history, man.” Tracey had stood in the doorway staring around. “Hey, you wouldn’t get me living in this.” She turned to Charles. “We could make a pile. Put a whole lot of modern buildings up, get some jet skis and motor boats and rent them out to tourists.”

  And Charles had laughed.

  If there were to be a grandchild who loved the place the way it was, Catherine would rewrite her will.

  She wished it were already Sunday with everything over. She ran the tap until the water felt cold and filled a glass, holding it against her cheek for a moment before gulping it down.

  “Chuck and I so wanted him to marry Emily. They made a lovely couple.” Anna said. “Emily would have accepted him.”

  “Would she?” Emily with the glossy brown hair and clear, honest eyes. Her family owned the other cottage on the island and yes, Catherine had hoped. She should have known better. Charles had been bringing home waifs and strays since he could walk. The three-legged dog. The cat with one ear and a broken tail. The little boy with the awful limp. And now, Tracey. Catherine put the glass down and went back to her job. She halved a hard-boiled egg and scooped out the centre. “Emily and Charles played together every summer since they could walk. I think they feel more like brother and sister.”

  “For a would-be artist, you are not very observant.” Anna carried the tray of salmon to the fridge, her heels clicking on the tiled floor. “Emily has been in love with Charles for years. What do you want done next?”

  “Nothing right now. In love with Charles? How do you know?” She ignored Anna’s putdown.

  “She blossoms when he appears. She’s always eager to do things with him, and she watches him when he’s not looking. I haven’t noticed Tracey doing the same.” Anna looked out of the window. “Where is she? She’s not lying in the hammock.”

  “I asked her to pick some flowers to put in the marquee.” Catherine stared at the bowl of dry egg yolks, trying to picture Emily in love with Charles.

  Anna spun away from the window. “Not in my garden.”

  “No, no. I told her not to touch the herbs.” Anna and Chuck had spent many summers on the island with them, and over the years, Anna had planted an impressive number of herbs. “Do you think everyone will like curried eggs? Or should I just use mayonnaise?”

  “I have no idea. I’m going to check on Tracey. She wouldn’t know a herb from a dandelion.” Anna hurried to the door. “And had you taken my advice and had dinner catered tonight, you would be free to relax now.” The screened door swung closed behind her.

  Free to think. The last thing Catherine wanted. She spooned Hellman’s mayonnaise into the bowl and began to mash the yolks. “Would-be” artist. That hurt. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

  Last summer, she had revelled in the thought of the “studio” waiting for her in their Toronto home. That March, with Hugh’s encouragement, she had handed in her resignation, to become effective at the end of the school year. No more lesson plans or late staff meetings. She would have time to follow her passion. Through the spring, she and Hugh had remodelled Charles’ vacated bedroom and playroom into an airy, light-filled apartment, ready for their return from the island. Only last July she had felt alive, filled with a bubbling kind of happiness. She ought to have known things were going too well.

  Hugh’s father had a fatal heart attack in August, and Charles had met Tracey. Of the two events, the death of Chuck had had the most catastrophic effect. She still found it hard to believe she’d agreed to let Anna move in with them.

  We can’t leave her by herself, Hugh had argued. She can use the spare room until she finds her feet. He’d called it the spare room, not the studio.

  What about Maggie? Catherine had asked desperately. But Hugh’s sister lived in Vancouver and refused to consider it.

  And if you’ve got any sense, Catherine, you’ll say no, or your life won’t be your own, Maggie had told her.

  She hadn’t been able to hold out against Hugh’s persuasion. The couple of months while Anna got over her loss had stretched to almost a year, and Catherine hardly painted at all now.

  She spread some lettuce leaves on the platter and laid out the halved egg whites. Tracey would have banned Anna from the den after the first visit.

  I know I’m not an art expert, but surely paintings should please the eye? What is it supposed to be, dear? And why make the leaves that horrid shade of grey?

  And she refused to understand the message. Yes, some people do lead grey lives, but all this psychological stuff is far too clever for me.

  Hugh’s sister had been right. But not in the way Catherine had expected. She hadn’t expected Anna to take Hugh away from her.

  It had happened so slowly, it had taken a while to notice. She was happy, at first, when Hugh escorted his mother to her Thursday bridge evenings, because it made a break for her from Anna’s constant I-know-better-than-you type of pronouncements, and she knew Hugh enjoyed the game. E
ven when it expanded to two nights a week, she didn’t complain. But then, soon after Christmas, Hugh and Anna had joined a study group at St. Matthew’s, and they were gone for a third evening and part of Sunday. And when they were home, they talked together of things Catherine wasn’t a part of and people she didn’t know.

  He began to beg off accompanying her to art shows or movies she wanted to see with the excuse he needed an evening at home. But it wasn’t until a friend asked her if she and Hugh were having problems that she sat down and really looked at why she was so unhappy with her life.

  She felt excluded. As though Anna and Hugh were the couple and she the drudge who cooked and cleaned for them.

  Before they moved to the cottage in June, she’d told Hugh that things had to change when they got back. Anna needs to get back to her own life with her own friends. And we need to renew our marriage. When was the last time we did something together, just the two of us? He’d promised to speak to his mother.

  And he had. Catherine had eavesdropped. It was when she heard him agreeing that, yes, there was plenty of room in the house, and it did seem silly for Anna to have the expense of a separate place, that she decided to act.

  Hugh still hadn’t told her about this conversation with his mother, nor had she told him she had put her name down for substitute teaching. Thirty mutinous teenagers seemed less daunting than spending the entire fall with Anna.

  Catherine scraped the last teaspoon of egg mixture out of the bowl and popped it into her mouth. It needed more curry. Too bad. She balanced the filled platter on top of the marinating steaks in the fridge. Time for a swim before she hauled Hugh from beneath the old boat he was fixing and got him to change for the rehearsal.

  The phone rang.

  Drat. She picked it up. “Hello.”

  “Mom,” Charles said, “I’ve got the cake, and I’m on my way.”

  “Keep an eye on the weather, darling, and go back if it looks iffy.”