When Boomers Go Bad

by Joan Boswell

  “It wasn’t the berries,” Joy said.

  “I know it wasn’t, Joy. I ate one of your tarts.”

  “I guessed it must have been that,” she said. “Serves you right for being greedy, dear. It’s a blessing that you, er, purged the stuff before it shut you down for good.”

  “And the family?”

  “Well, they were very pleased by my apology. I took them the treats and said I was so sorry for my rudeness, and I hoped they’d forgive me. Oh, they were suspicious at first, but one look at my tarts was all it took. And of course, they ate them right away. And on top of all the berries they’d been eating, it took a little longer for things to...well, happen.”

  “And you got away with it. I can’t believe it.”

  “Well, they did some kind of analysis, but as soon as they found strawberries and pesticide, I guess whatever else they found wasn’t important.” She was utterly delighted with herself. I guess that, in her books, she’d just won another blue ribbon.

  “Don’t you feel any remorse at all?” She had been my best friend for over thirty years. What had I missed?

  “Yes, absolutely,” she said. “I’m furious, actually. The Fall Fair people have announced that, because of the tragedy, they’re taking strawberry jam off the contest list this year. Can you imagine the nerve of them?”

  I gazed into her eyes. I’d never noticed how cold they could get when she was angry. Or how empty. After she left, I started to write this down. I haven’t quite decided what to do with it yet, but there’s one thing I know for sure. My strawberry picking days are over.

  H. Mel Malton writes the Polly Deacon mystery series: Down in the Dumps (1998)—shortlisted for an Arthur Ellis First Novel Award, Cue the Dead Guy (1999), Dead Cow in Aisle Three (2001) and One Large Coffin to Go (2003)—all published by Rendezvous Press. Her first children’s novel, The Drowned Violin, will be published by Napoleon in 2006. She lives in Muskoka, Ontario, with two dogs, Karma and Ego, and writes freelance to pay for kibble and smokes.

  Smoke Screen

  Mary Jane Maffini

  Cool. Buddy reached out and touched the first plant, ran a respectful finger around a leaf, traced each of the five points, felt the slight stickiness of resin. He sniffed. It wasn’t everyone’s idea of perfume, but that’s what quality smelled like. This was his work. His plants, grown from carefully selected seeds started indoors, the seedlings protected under a jar until they were transplanted. Finally, it was paying off. For the first time in his fifty-five years, Buddy felt like some kind of god. He gazed around his small heaven in the far eastern edge of Mrs. Wilkins’s corn field. Only fifteen plants. Buddy wasn’t greedy. But what amazing plants they were: seven feet tall, buds bursting with THC, the best you could get from hot weather, careful watering, regular trimming with manicure scissors and plenty of 20-20-20. There was enough high-grade weed to keep Buddy and his small group of clients happy all winter.

  Best of all, his crop was safe here.

  Stan Fuhrman was renting the field from Mrs. Wilkins to grow corn. And for sure Stan had better things to do than tramp around corn fields looking for surprises. Buddy’s crop was too small to attract the attention of the cops. Buddy wasn’t stupid enough to plant near his cabin, especially because Mick LeMay, the sergeant at the local Surete du Quebec detachment, had started dropping around unannounced. That’s all he needed was the SQ stumbling on his babies.

  Still, bikers were more of a worry, even with a few plants. The gangs were muscling in locally, intimidating farmers and squashing small producers. The only thing worse than bikers was teenagers. They’d clean out your patch in a night, leaving only a hill of crumpled McDonald’s boxes as a useless clue. But after the first frost, Buddy would be able to harvest. Then he could stop worrying.

  Today, he hadn’t been able to resist a quick visit before he headed over to paint Mrs. Wilkins’s kitchen trim. Keeping up Mrs. Wilkins’s property was the only career Buddy’d ever had, if you didn’t count his plants. Mrs. Wilkins needed Buddy’s help, since her niece, Wanda, was too busy, and Wanda was Mrs. Wilkins’ only relative. And Buddy had always had a soft spot for Mrs. Wilkins, ever since she had taught him in Grade Five, slipping him oatmeal cookies on the days his lunchbox was empty. Mrs. Wilkins was seventy-five now, with a happy heart and endless odd jobs. She and Buddy shared friendly chuckles and little jokes. Unlike Wanda, she didn’t mock Buddy’s long braid or spreading bald spot. She didn’t sneer at his Grateful Dead T-shirt or the frayed jeans with the draggy hems. Buddy lived rent-free in the cabin at the western edge of her acreage. Kept the local youngsters from vandalizing it, she said.

  Mrs. Wilkins was never in a hurry. Buddy appreciated that.

  Buddy lit a joint to celebrate his achievement. Gradually, the field took on a magical appearance, the stalks shimmered. Beauty all around him, colours throbbing. Something glittered behind a row of corn near the edge of the field. Buddy smiled as he ambled over for a better look. He leaned in. His eyes popped. Wires. Two of them, no three, artfully placed, connected to—could it be? Yes, a shotgun, strapped to a stake. The wires were attached to the trigger. Buddy recoiled. To his left, he detected another glint. More wire. Another shotgun. As far as he could tell, the shotguns were pointed toward the end of the corn field near the old logging road.

  “Bummer,” Buddy said.

  Must be bikers. They took over fields and set booby-traps for nosy strangers. Buddy might be proud of his plants, but he’d never shoot anybody to protect them. He tried to think clearly. Why here? Someone trying to get rid of him? But he always came down the hill from his cabin and backtracked from the river path. The guns seemed to be aimed at the logging road, but Buddy never used that way because he’d be in plain view. No one ever passed by, but why take a chance?

  Buddy wasn’t the best thinker in town, even when he wasn’t stoned. Now he’d have to wait to figure things out. But he knew it sure didn’t look good.

  Buddy followed the aroma of freshly baked pastry from the end of the driveway. He was starving.

  Mrs. Wilkins’s bright blue eyes lit up as she opened the door. “Just in time, Buddy. Blueberry or apple today?” She twinkled at him as she headed for her big pine table.

  Buddy followed, salivating. “Tough choice.”

  “Have both. Ice cream on that pie? It’s French vanilla today.”

  The door slammed as someone stormed into the kitchen after them. Buddy jumped. The niece, Wanda, must have been coming down the driveway right after him. And Wanda was a world-class door slammer. Usually Buddy kept an eye open for her.

  Wanda was the opposite of her aunt. She was loud, where Mrs. Wilkins had a soft, musical voice. Mrs. Wilkins was tiny, and getting smaller every year, like a bird with her tufts of white feathery hair and pointy little bones. Wanda was more like a walrus in pantyhose. Of course, even a walrus could be nice, and everyone agreed Wanda was mean as a snake.

  Wanda leaned against the pine table and sneered, “Why do you let this grungy old hippie take advantage of you, Auntie?”

  Buddy gasped. Take advantage? He would have done Mrs. Wilkins’s odd jobs for free. He’d even pay rent if she’d accept it. Money wasn’t important to Buddy, or he’d have a career where you’d make some. Instead he’d chosen a peaceful, happy life with plenty of primo weed and pie.

  “He eats you out of house and home.”

  What was the matter with her? Wanda was ten years younger than Buddy, which made her forty-five. She wore a tight black leather mini-skirt and knee-high lace up boots. Her push-up bra was working hard. No surprise she hadn’t made it big in real estate, which had been her last real job.

  Anyway, she wasn’t dressed like that at three in the afternoon to impress her husband. A few years back, Wanda Wilkins had married Mick LeMay, both on the rebound. But being an SQ officer’s wife never restricted her social life. To put it mildly.

  Everyone knew she spent a lot of time with Big Bob Beaulieu in his fancy new house overlooking the river. Or y
ou could find her chugging Corona and lime at the Rusty Lock, Big Bob’s bar. Big Bob made a bundle serving watered down drinks and otherwise hoodwinking his customers. He’d gone to school with Buddy and Mick. He’d even been in Mrs. Wilkins Grade Five class with them. Big Bob had been a sleazy wheeler dealer even then, stealing lunches, cheating at marbles. Maybe Wanda was impressed, but no one else was.

  Another thing no one understood was what Mick LeMay had ever done to deserve Wanda. Mick was stubborn and hard-headed as they come, a good trait in the police, but not so useful in a husband perhaps.

  Wanda was still bitching away at Buddy. “You’re a real vulture, preying on this vulnerable old woman. She should have people looking after her, not be waiting on a creep like you.” Wanda gave one last sneer before swaying her black leather butt toward the door.

  Buddy’s jaw dropped. That was pretty disrespectful, even for Wanda. Mrs. Wilkins wasn’t vulnerable. She was smart and in charge, just like she’d always been.

  Mrs. Wilkins said, “Don’t mind Wanda, Buddy. She has a lot on her mind lately.”

  “Right on.” Buddy dug into his pie. He knew he should be giving some thought to the shotgun problem. But later.

  Buddy was on his way back to his cabin, carefully lugging a basket with what was left of the apple and blueberry pies, when Mick LeMay sneaked up behind him in his cruiser. Buddy was deep in thought about booby-traps, so he jumped when he heard Mick’s voice.

  Mick said, “Hold on, Buddy.”

  Buddy shuffled. He wasn’t in the mood to chew the fat. He really wanted to get home and find a solution to those shotguns before someone got hurt. He could hardly tell Mick that.

  “What’s in the basket, Buddy?”

  “Pie, man. From your wife’s aunt.”

  “Oh, yeah? Mind if I look?”

  “No problemo. These pies probably shouldn’t be legal,” Buddy chuckled.

  Mick just lifted the lid on the basket.

  Buddy felt a chill. Wanda was married to Mick, after all. What if she’d told Mick that Buddy was taking advantage of Mrs. Wilkins?

  Mick said, “I’ve been hearing about you.”

  “Me?”

  “Getting tips about your grow-op.”

  “I’ve been painting the trim in Mrs. Wilkins’s kitchen all day. I chopped some wood for her too. Ask her.”

  Mick said, “A guy could paint trim and still look after a crop.”

  Buddy shrugged. No point in arguing. Mick never admitted mistakes.

  “So, what’s new?” Buddy said. He wasn’t the type to hold a grudge, and he and Mick had grown up together. Mick was just doing his job, chasing people who sold weed, the same way Buddy was just doing his by growing it.

  “Getting ready to retire,” Mick said.

  “You kidding me, man?”

  “Full pension,” Mick said. “Next month.”

  Buddy shook his head. “Time flies, man.” He still hadn’t found a career, and here was Mick LeMay retiring. He wasn’t the only one. One minute you’re hearing “Yellow Submarine” for the first time, and the next your friends are pensioners. Something else to think about. But first he had that shotgun thing hanging over his head.

  “That’s cool,” Buddy said. “But I can’t see you playing golf or nothing.”

  Mick said, “Don’t plan to. Got an offer on the house, some savings, enough to buy a fishing lodge. Moving on to the next phase. Piece of paradise two hours north of here.”

  “No shit? Man, I can’t see Wanda in a fishing lodge.”

  Mick’s lips compressed. “She’ll adjust.”

  “Hey, no sweat.”

  “Got that right.”

  “Peace, Mick.” Buddy was still shaking his head when he got home. He used his time to worry about those shotguns instead of imagining Wanda Wilkins being miserable in a fishing lodge. What if Mrs. Wilkins stumbled over those wires? Buddy felt sick. Even if the shots missed, she could have a heart attack. She’d be alone, no one would hear, since nobody used the old logging track. Buddy couldn’t really imagine life without Mrs. Wilkins. Not just the pies and the cabin and the steady supply of odd jobs. But having someone who cared about him. Someone to share a joke with. If something happened to Mrs. Wilkins, Buddy would lose it all. Wanda would get the house and the cabin and the property. Wanda sure wouldn’t keep Buddy around.

  He had to tell Mrs. Wilkins everything. As soon as he mellowed out a bit.

  By early evening, a follow-up toke and both leftover pies hadn’t been enough to calm him. Buddy ate a peanut butter sandwich. That didn’t work either. Problem solving just wasn’t Buddy’s groove. He rolled another joint to help the process and shuffled outside to sit among the trees. The sunset and the leaves made for a beautiful moment. Buddy did his best to think hard, until all the colours got too intense.

  The problem was bigger than Buddy. He had to tell Mrs. Wilkins for her own safety. She’d be disappointed in Buddy. She might not bake for him once she found out about his crop. Buddy contemplated a long, hungry winter, no weed, no feed. She’d probably tell Mick LeMay. He was her niece’s husband, and she’d taught him in Grade Five too. Maybe Buddy could pretend the crop wasn’t his. But then Buddy always told Mrs. Wilkins the truth, because it was like she could read his mind. She’d feel bad, but she’d do what she thought was right. Buddy had to respect that. Looked like he had no choice. Whoever booby-trapped the field didn’t care if someone got killed. Even a really good someone like Mrs. Wilkins. Buddy struggled to his feet and decided. First thing tomorrow, he’d do it.

  Buddy tossed and turned. In the middle of the night, he got a better idea. He sat up in bed. Why not take those shotguns down? Dismantle the wires and throw the guns in the river. He’d have to remember to wipe his fingerprints off first. That way he wouldn’t have to lose his crop, disappoint Mrs. Wilkins and go to jail. No one would get hurt. Buddy grinned. He imagined the surprise on the face of whoever had set the booby-trap. The grin slipped. Whoever that was would just put them back up again. Or do something worse. Maybe Buddy wouldn’t find the new thing on time. Bummer. Buddy got out of bed and lit another joint.

  In the morning, he took the long way around to Mrs. Wilkins, circling the property and walking along the old dirt-track logging road, getting up his nerve to tell her. As he reached the point where the track passed close to his crop, he turned around, and his heart contracted. Mick LeMay’s cruiser was bouncing after him. The cruiser stopped, and Mick got out, leaving the engine running. Mick set off striding briskly into the corn field.

  Buddy’s jaw dropped.

  “Wait up, Mick,” Buddy shouted.

  Mick paid no attention. Kept moving, fast and confident, typical Mick.

  “You don’t want to do that!” Buddy loped after Mick.

  Mick didn’t break stride. He called over his shoulder. “Got you this time, Buddy.”

  Buddy pushed aside rows of corn and stumbled after.

  “Mick!”

  But Mick wasn’t in a waiting mood. “Got another tip about you. The law’s the law. Something you don’t seem too clear on.”

  “What about de-crim-in-a-lize-a-tion?” Buddy was out of breath from stumbling after Mick.

  Mick must be awful close to those wires now. Buddy launched himself through the air and connected with the back of Mick’s legs.

  The force of landing, half on Mick and half on the rough ground of the corn field, knocked the rest of the breath out of Buddy. That was nothing compared to the shock of the gunshots. Dozens of them.

  Buddy rolled off Mick, and flattened himself against the ground, whimpering. Mick wasn’t much more dignified. He turned around and crawled like hell out of the field and toward the cruiser.

  Buddy speed-crawled after him.

  “Hey, we’re not dead. That’s cool, man.” Buddy couldn’t hear himself because the shots were still ringing in his ears.

  Mick said something.

  “What?”

  “What the hell have you done now, you mor
on?” Mick said.

  “Me?” Buddy said.

  “Well, who else?”

  “Bikers maybe.”

  “Bullshit. Whose pot patch is that?”

  Buddy blinked. “Pot patch?”

  “I guess the tipsters didn’t know you’d rigged up a deathtrap.”

  Buddy struggled to his feet and brushed off his jeans. “Just pot man. Not worth killing over. Not that it’s mine.”

  “Give me a break. I’d have to be dumb as a post not to know you supply your friends.”

  “The law’s changing, Mick. Supreme Court, eh.”

  “Don’t count on it. It’s going to get worse for growers, Buddy. Up to fourteen years if you have more than four plants.”

  “Hey, man. I just want to live in harmony with nature. Anyways, who’d call in tips about me? There’s major grow-ops all over these hills.”

  “Maybe you pissed off the competition.”

  “Jeez, Mick, I don’t know. For fifteen plants? Not that they’re mine.”

  Mick LeMay struggled to his feet and rubbed his hand on his temple. He didn’t look quite as smart as he usually did, because he was covered with mud and straw, with a bit of blood trickling down over his eye where he must have hit a rock. His nose might have been broken too. Buddy probably didn’t look so hot either, but he was used to that.

  Mick said, “One month left until I retire, and I’m not wasting a minute arguing with you. I can charge you with attacking an officer, aggravated assault, assault with a weapon, growing a controlled substance. They’ll throw the book at you.”

  “That’s the pits, man.”

  “Into the cruiser, Buddy.” Now a stream of blood ran down Mick’s temple.

  “Hey Mick, your head’s bleeding in two places, three if you count your nose. You better go to the clinic.”

  Mick said, “Paperwork first.”

  “You’re wobbling, man.”

  “Good try, Buddy.” Mick smirked briefly before his eyes rolled back in his head and he pitched head first onto the dirttrack road.