by Pat Mestern
Copyright © 2018 Pat Mestern
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner, which permission may be requested through the publisher.
Published in the USA by
Canterbury House an imprint of Dudley Court Press
Sonoita, Arizona
www.CanterburyHousePublishing.com
Publisher’s Cataloging in Publication Data
Names:
Mestern, Pat Mattaini, author.
Title:
Vein of love / Pat Mestern.
Description:
Sonoita, AZ : Canterbury House, [2021] | First published in print in 1981.
Identifiers:
ISBN: 978-0-9831383-6-5 (EBook)
Subjects:
LCSH: Recluses--Canada--Fiction. | Villages--Canada--Fiction. | Historic preservation-- Canada--Fiction. | Cemeteries-- Canada--Fiction. | Wills--Fiction. | Wilderness areas-- Canada--Fiction. | Mountaineers-- Canada--Fiction. | Canadian fiction. | LCGFT: Historical fiction. | Romance fiction. | Gothic fiction. | Detective and mystery fiction. | BISAC: LITERARY COLLECTIONS / Canadian. | FICTION / Gothic. | FICTION / Small Town & Rural.
Classification:
LCC: PR9199.3.M446 V45 2021 | DDC: 813/.54--dc23
Dudley Court Press is committed to publishing works of quality and integrity. We are proud to offer this book to our readers. The story, the experiences, opinions and words are the author’s alone.
www.CanterburyHousePublishing.com
Dedicated to Madeline Mattaini
who died of diphtheria in January
1932 in her 19th year
and
Neil Mattaini who died in an
automobile accident in June 1932
in his 21st year
We Are the Forgotten
We are the old, the unremembered dead.
Forgot, we lie in country graveyards high on lonely hills.
We are unwept save by such tears as sheds,
The weeping sky.
Above old huddled graves in city streets, sometimes a passer finds,
The time to pause and sigh remembering.
But none pass by us here,
Above us sigh only the winds.
The hands that laid us here long, long ago are dust.
The impassioned tears shed then for us are dried.
The faltering feet that followed us in grief have now lain still,
Unnumbered years.
And, strange hands now till the fields we cleared.
Strange voices ring beneath the roofs we raised.
Beneath the trees we planted, strange young lovers make their vows,
Each passing spring.
The alien plow that draws so near…so near.
Disturbs our rest.
Here in our sunken and neglected graves we stir.
Who will protest?
We are unclamoring.
We only ask that we may lie,
Safe from the plow that threatens our old graves,
Covered by vines, mourned by the passing winds,
Wept by the sky.
Anonymous
Possibly written by Ossie Glenn
Author’s Notes
The town in my story is fictional but with a little imagination it could be my home turf, or it could be your community.
The people inhabiting the pages are fictional too but some do encompass characteristics of the many persons I’ve met over my years of writing. That’s why each might become so real for many readers.
The story, although a work of fiction, has some elements of truth about it because there are always eccentric characters who share similarities in behavior, in every community.
I would like to thank my husband, Teddy, who is always so kind and considerate about giving me quiet time to write. Thank you, Patricia Hunter, author of Our Master Caesar, for all your editing and advice. Thanks also must be given to Lorraine Bride, a kind friend who I have saluted by naming a character in the book after her.
Chapter 1
February 2004
How Joey the paper boy had made it through the storm impressed Ramona. He was a determined young man, saving money for a new bicycle. When Ramona answered the knock on the front door she noticed Joey’s father, Jack, standing on the sidewalk. Of course he would be there. Ramona waved at Jack then asked Joey to wait a moment. She opened a drawer in the hall table, chose several quarters from her small stash of coins, and handed them to the boy.
“You shouldn’t have come out in this weather,” Ramona said. “I could have waited for the weekly, but I appreciate your dedication.” In reality, she knew that Jack, good neighbour that he was, was using his son’s paper delivery route to check that she and several of the other older residents on the street were OK.
“Thanks,” Joey said. “Mrs. Ashdon? Maybe you shouldn’t keep your money in that drawer where someone can just sneak into the house and get it.”
“Don’t worry, Joey. I keep my doors locked, and I know you’re a good boy. Besides, you won’t tell anyone where I keep your tips.”
“No ma’am,” Joey said.
Several hours later Ramona, wrapped in a warm blanket, sat in her favorite chair, a candle and matches handy on a side table just in case the power went out. As she adjusted the chair’s crocheted arm protectors, Ramona thought of her mother’s comments: “My father bought this chair with his milk money just after I was born. It meant a lot to him that his wife had a decent chair in the living room when she had company. I’m giving it to you but not before I make some arm covers so your husband John doesn’t filthy it up.” Ramona didn’t protest her mother making the arm covers as her mother loved to crotchet and had to have something to do to keep her busy.
Sure enough, while leafing through a reprinted copy of the 1902 Eaton’s catalogue sometime after her mother’s death, Ramona found a picture of the chair. It was called a student’s chair. But how a scholar ever stayed awake long enough to study after dropping into its cozy seat remained a mystery as the chair’s subtle comfort invariably lulled Ramona to sleep. Mooch, her four-footed feline companion snuggled into the blanket and purred contentedly while waiting for the next heartfelt human acknowledgment - a hand caressing her long white fur. Ramona smiled. That’s what she really craved - required sometimes - the involuntary opportunity to sleep, just like Mooch.
Ramona heard the deep rumble of the highway plow long before it swept past the house, both its blades down, trying to keep ahead of the falling snow. Windows chattered as frozen earth transferred the machine’s weight through the ground. She couldn’t help wonder how the new, modern toss ’em up houses that seemed to be sprouting in subdivisions on all sides of town endured such an assault. If her house, a solid stone structure built some one hundred and fifty years ago, shuddered with the plow’s vibrations the new homes must vibrate from basement to roof. Of course, they weren’t located right on a highway, a situation that was both a blessing and a curse. She personally liked to watch the world go by on the busy road. She wouldn’t live any other place. And, as far as the house was concerned, she was just as grounded to it as its thick stone foundation.
At Ramona’s age, the first page she turned to after a quick browse at the headlines was the obituaries. This was an entrenched habit she’d gotten into after turning the big sixty. When John laughed at her routine, she was quick to point out that she’d poached the habit from him.
“Well, Mooch, it’s time to see who’s hatched, matched, and dispatched; who’s in business, going out of business, or silly enough to think they can open a business. This time of the ye
ar, the paper is the only way I know what’s going on around town.” Ramona opened the paper then folded it in half for easier reading.
“Oh my!” Ramona felt a prickle of tears at her eyes. “He’s dead, Mooch. Harry Forest died two days ago and no one called to tell me. How strange. There’s no personal information. Just a notice that he died, and due to his wishes there’ll be no funeral. Interment of his remains will take place at a later date. Arrangements are in the hands of Leyland & Turner.”
The tone of Ramona’s voice caused the cat to open its eyes to look at her before it stretched and settled again when its mistress reached to pat her.
“I must call Mr. Leyland to ask if he’ll let me know when the burial will take place. I have to attend. That’s the least I can do for Harry. Imagine dying on the same day as Charlotte. That can’t be a coincidence. But could it be? No. Harry wouldn’t …”
Ramona couldn’t stop herself. Tears flowed as they always did, at the most unexpected times. Since John passed away she never knew what would trigger another bout. “Mooch, Mooch, if I didn’t have you on a night like this. But these aren’t tears for only Harry. They’re being shed for Charlotte. I suppose now the two will be together and that’s what he waited years to happen.”
Ramona rummaged around in a pocket for a tissue, dabbed her eyes, then blew her nose, hard. “No, they’re also tears for John, and for me. Ah well, as Doc Tom says, this too shall pass. Let’s hope so, and soon.”
Late May 2004
Harry was surely smiling on the day. The rains of the previous night had passed and a warm sun spread rays through old spruce trees in the cemetery. In particular, one shaft fell on a gathering of people hovering around a small hole in the ground in one of the older sections of the graveyard. Ramona didn’t expect many at the ceremony, if that’s what the event could be called. From the dozen or so people near the burial plot, it was apparent that Harry’s final interment wasn’t exactly a celebration of his life. Knowing about Harry’s past and his propensity for eccentric behaviour, she knew that the service would either be a gathering of vultures or no one would bother to attend.
Fortunately for Ramona her best friend Lorraine accompanied her to the cemetery. Looking around Ramona knew none of the seven people who stood in a cluster on the far side of the hole. Neither did she know the bearded fellow who stood by the trunk of an old maple tree a short distance away. She knew the three men that were standing closest to the grave site were the Legion Chaplin and two people from the funeral home, one carrying a small box which obviously contained Harry’s ashes. She and Lorraine decided that their best bet was to be in leagues with Dr. Gerry and a tall, lanky, good-looking, white-haired stranger she’d not seen before who was standing beside him.
“Hi Ramona,” Dr. Gerry said. “It’s good to see you. We haven’t spoken since your mom’s funeral. Harry spoke highly of you.”
“When he put more than fifty words together,” Ramona said.
Dr. Gerry chuckled. “You hit the nail on the head with that one, Ramona, especially when he was talking about you. Have you met Don Chambers?”
“No. He’s a new one in town, I’d say,” Ramona said, extending her hand to shake the hand proffered by the stranger.
“I’m the bank-appointed executor of Harry’s estate,” Don Chambers explained. “You may have seen me in the local branch of the Royal Bank recently?”
“Can’t say that I have but then I don’t go to the bank often -maybe once a month. Were you responsible for putting the information in the paper?”
“Harry did request that no obituary be written,” Don said. “But I felt there should be a notice of some sort. I do have to speak with everyone close to him sooner rather than later and hoped that a few friends and relatives would show up. Did you know Harry well?”
“In a way but it’s a long, involved story,” Ramona said. “Suffice to say that we had a special relationship, special as in Harry’s terms.”
“And your friend? We haven’t been introduced.”
“Sorry. This is my friend Lorraine DiBruitso.”
Lorraine shook hands with Don Chambers. “I didn’t know Harry well,” she said. “He was not a man to chat much. My mother—God rest her soul—could have given you some information about him.”
“Lorraine, I do remember your mother,” Dr. Gerry said. “She was a lovely person. I remember she told me once that Mr. Forest was a kind but quiet man who kept very much to himself.”
“I found out quickly that no one would argue with that statement,” Don said, “especially the folks over there.” He nodded toward the group on the other side of the plot. “Do you know any of them?”
“No. I’ve not seen any of them before,” Ramona said. Lorraine agreed with her.
“Well, I do,” Doctor Gerry said. “They’re distant relatives, the spawn of Harry’s father’s side of the family, all looking for something in a monetary sense, I’d wager.”
“Such words from a gentleman,” Ramona said.
“They are Mr. Forest’s second cousins, the children of his father’s brother,” Don replied. “I understand that they paid no heed to the man when he was alive. They’re quite vocal now that he has passed.”
“Dead. The man’s dead. He hasn’t passed on, away or through. Harry would be the last one to have wanted to … pass,” Ramona said.
“I completely agree with you Ramona,” Dr. Gerry said.
“And, what about the fellow under the maple tree?” Ramona asked. “Do you know who he is?”
“I’ve never seen him before,” Dr. Gerry said. “Lorraine? Don?”
“Can’t say I’ve seen him around here,” Lorraine said.
“Don’t know who he might be,” Don added. “By the way he’s dressed, perhaps he has something to do with taking care of the graves?”
The chaplain raised his hand for silence, glanced around to make sure he’d been seen, and launched into a short, to the point eulogy, ending with a quote penned by Harry himself: We only ask that we may lie, save from the plow that threatens our old graves, covered by vines, mourned by the passing winds, wept by the sky.
“Prophetic given his obsession with cemeteries and bones,” Ramona said.
Don gave her a strange look. “That one you’ll have to explain.”
“Will do,” Ramona said. “If you’ll excuse me, it’s time to introduce myself to Harry’s relatives.”
“Crossing the moat?” Dr. Gerry asked.
“Being neighbourly,” Ramona said. “There’s merit to stirring the pot.”
“I’ve got to stay around to see this.” Dr. Gerry laughed.
“And, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll going to introduce myself to the fellow by the maple tree,” Lorraine said.
Ramona walked up to the most imposing of the group, a corpulent fellow who appeared to be in his early forties. “Hi,” she said, offering her hand. “I’m Ramona Ashdon, a friend of Harry’s. Rather, my aunt was a very special friend of Harry’s.”
Receiving no physical or verbal response from the fellow, other than a drop-dead glare, Ramona continued. “Did you know that Harry wrote beautiful poetry?”
“Poetry,” one of the other vultures said. “Harry Forest wrote poetry? That’s a stretch if I’ve ever heard one.”
“Well, he did,” Ramona said. “I’m sure that the minister just quoted from one. And, he wrote several poems every year for me.”
“Wrote poetry for you?” the corpulent fellow said. “I didn’t know that he had a girlfriend.”
“Girlfriend? Not me,” Ramona said. I was just a friend. And you?”
“None of your damn business,” the fat fellow said. And don’t think that you’ll get any of his money, if that’s why you’re here, mooching up to the executor. We’re Harry’s family.”
Ramona laughed. “I didn’t know that Harry had family, so to speak. Ah well, to each his, or her, own.” She turned her back on the pack and made her way back to Dr. Gerry and Don Chambers.
; “Nice people,” Ramona said. “The chubby one has as much personality as a turnip and says I should forget about being the recipient of any of Harry’s money, as if I care.”
Lorraine joined the group. “Well, I didn’t get very far with the fellow under the tree. I didn’t even get his name. And, when I turned to see what was going on with you, Ramona, the guy just disappeared; walked away very quickly. He did say he knew Harry but not how or where.”
Don, hands clasped behind his back, rocked from heel to toe and spoke to Ramona. “Dr. Gerry says that you knew Harry well enough to chat with him, on more than a few occasions?”
“We did … interact and when Harry was inclined to, we did chat,” Ramona said. “A lot of my information came from Mom; hers from her mother-in-law, my grandmother. They knew him and his mother too.
“Do you think we could meet over coffee?” Don asked. “I’ve a few questions you may be able to answer.”
“Like what?” Ramona asked.
“Like, did either your mother or grandmother mention a woman by the name of Charlotte in the same sentence as Harry?”
“Charlotte. Of course, she was my aunt,” Ramona said.
“Then we have to meet, and soon if possible.”
When Ramona hesitated, Dr. Gerry put his hand on her arm. “Knowing Don’s situation, I think that you’ve a lot to contribute to his search for answers.”
“Fine, then,” Ramona said. “How about you come to Castello dei Sogni on Monday, say at ten o’clock. That will give me time to dig through some files for pictures and to make a few notes about Harry. Call it a game plan. By the way, do you know what today is?”
“May 20.” Dr. Gerry and Don Chambers said in unison. “Did you forget?” Dr. Gerry asked, a frown on his face.
“No,” Ramona said. “I just wondered if you knew …. Never mind. It’s not important. I’ll see you on Monday at Castello dei Sogni, Mr. Chambers.”
Castello dei Sogni