Vein of Love

by Pat Mestern

  “From the way you’re sweating, maybe I should be tossing a stick around for you,” Ramona said. “You look as though you’re a little out of shape too. Apartment living might not be agreeing with you either.”

  “That might be true. I’ve a better idea for a little romp though,” Don said. “When was the last time you visited Harry at his house?”

  “I’ve never been inside Harry’s house. I delivered a tin of cookies to him every Christmas since 1975 but never got past the front door. Occasionally, I did spend a bit of time in his driveway.”

  “You’ve not seen how the man lived?”

  “No. But I’ve heard things from a couple of people, guys who were friends, as in that after Harry couldn’t ride his bicycle, whether for weather or health, he could count on one of them to give him a ride. Harry didn’t own a car, never learned to drive, never wanted to. On the other hand, grandmother owned a car but didn’t learn how to drive. Dad was her chauffeur. I learned that apparently until Dad died, he was one of the fellows that drove Harry around.”

  “How did your cookie run come about?”

  “After I received the first Christmas card from Harry in ’75, I decided to add him to my list of friends who receive a tin of homemade cookies along with a card.”

  “I’m going to make sure I’m on your list for this year’s goodies,” Don said.

  Ramona laughed. “You wish. I only deliver to friends around town.”

  “So, you knocked on the door and …”

  “And Harry didn’t answer it. I know that he was home because I could hear his dog just inside the door. Harry never went anywhere without his pooch. I left the card and cookie tin on the front porch.”

  “Why did you receive a card from Harry in ’75?”

  “I made a point of introducing myself as Charlotte’s niece to Harry in October of 1975. Our paths crossed in the post office. From then until the Christmas before Harry’s death I received a Valentine’s Day card and a Christmas card every year, each with a lovely, newly conceived poem from Harry’s fertile mind and written in his bold script. He always added the notation In Memory of Charlotte. Oh yes, and the cookie tin would be returned, two or three weeks after Christmas. It was always full of interesting things, some Indians artifacts, some small fossil or semi-precious stones.”

  “Interesting. You gave him cookies and he gave pebbles.”

  “Fair deal, don’t you think, given his years in the bush? I’d find the cookie tin on my front porch first thing of a morning and see the prints of a man and dog leading up to the porch then away again.”

  “To each his own, I suppose.” Don tossed the stick again this time into the river. Major was barely up to the challenge.

  “Major needs a bath?”

  “Yep. His fur clogs the drain in my bathtub.”

  “Ever thought of using the services of a dog groomer?”

  “Nope. I wonder what Harry did about grooming himself and his dog?”

  “They both probably swam in the river in good weather. Mother said that she was told after Harry left London and returned home that he was even more eccentric than he’d been as a young man. She said he seemed withdrawn, reclusive. At one time there were a few ‘Harry’ types around. No one thought much of them. It isn’t like today when everyone has to conform to certain standards or they’re considered mentally ill. You should have known Dad.”

  Don coughed. “I’ve … heard about your father. Interesting man, I understand.”

  “Dad was no different than his brother Tomas. Dad’s restraint was that he elected to be the one to stay close to his mother, in the traditional Italian way, I suppose.”

  “Some of his eccentricities must have been passed along to you,” Don said. “I understand that you’ve broken a few molds and rules.”

  Ramona laughed. “Now, who told you that? My philosophy now is that life is for the living. It’s to be lived to the fullest extent when one’s still breathing and thinking. I had a hard time adhering to that belief after John died. But I seem to be getting back into my “groove” again. You’re not without your eccentricities, Don. What’s up with the tomato soup and grilled cheese routine?”

  “That’s an easy one to explain,” Don said. “I grew up making lunch for myself. Mother worked so the cupboard was full of tinned tomato soup. There was always cheese at hand. She taught me how to make grilled cheese sandwiches. I loved eating them! After I left home, I was in a restaurant in Owen Sound and asked the waitress if tinned tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches were available. The soup wasn’t. The grilled cheese was. The owner sent one of the waitresses next door to buy a tin of the soup so he could fill my order. Needless to say, I left a generous tip.”

  “That was kind of them, and you, too.”

  “I sure got a big kick out of watching their faces when they saw the tip. So I began to carry tins of tomato soup in the car. When I’m in a restaurant if the combo is available, I order it. Usually grilled cheese sandwiches are available but the old-fashioned tinned soup is not. If it isn’t listed I offer a tin of tomato soup and ask if it could be heated up for me. If the answer is yes, I pay double the money of what the meal cost plus I leave a generous tip.”

  Ramona laughed. “Talk about strange, quirky people! You sure fit the bill.”

  “No one said I was perfect. And I do have a whacky sense of humour,” Don said. “Tell me, how and when did your father die?”

  Ramona looked down to her hands, up to the sky, and then at Don. “It was the autumn of ’76. He was fishing at one of his favourite spots along the river. He had a heart attack. His buddies got him out of the river but it was obvious he had died. I take comfort knowing that he died with friends by his side, doing something he enjoyed.”

  Early October 1975

  Ramona, paying more attention to looking through her mail than to where she was going, glanced up at the last moment and smartly stepped right to avoid bumping full-on into Harry Forest.

  Harry, gazing intently at the woman in front of him, stepped left so the pair did a little dance in the foyer of the post office before Ramona, a little uncomfortable under the relentless gaze, said, “Mr. Forest. I am Ramona Ashdon. Charlotte Carmello was my aunt. I believe that you knew her. I know that I look like her. My middle name is Charlotte because, even at birth, I looked so much like her.” Ramona extended her hand.

  Harry removed his cap and pressed it to his chest. He then took Ramona’s hand in his, bent and kissed it. Mrs. Ashdon, it is my pleasure to meet you.”

  Ramona was so taken aback by his old-world mannerism that she was at a loss for words.

  “You live in the home of the man who taught me to cut hair.”

  “I do? My husband and I bought the property from Mr. Elliott after his wife died. Of course, Mr. Elliott didn’t give his house an Italian name.”

  “That’s true, Mrs. Ashdon.”

  Please call me Ramona, Mr. Forest.”

  Still clutching his cap, Harry finally lowered his eyes. “I was sorry to hear of your father’s death. Your grandmother and mother are well?”

  “They are coping,” Ramona said.

  “Please accept my sincerest condolences, Mrs. Ashdon.” Harry again looked intently at Ramona then turned abruptly and left the foyer.

  “Mr. Forest. Your mail! You forgot to pick up your mail.”

  If Harry heard her, he didn’t answer or look back.

  “Mother said he acted strangely,” Ramona muttered, “but that does take the cake.”

  “You’d better get used to it,” a voice said. Mr. Strickman, the postmaster, stood behind Ramona, a broom in his hand. “He’s that way around those of the female persuasion. You’re lucky. You must have met with his approval. Three sentences are all that ladies usually get out of him afore he runs away.”

  “Can I take his mail out to his house? He was in such a rush to leave he forgot to check his box.”

  “Are you kidding? You go to his house? He won’t answer the door i
f there’s a woman on the other side of it. He and that dog of his are like two peas in a pod woman-shy. Don’t worry. He’ll be back as soon as he knows you’ve left the building.”

  “Poor fellow,” Ramona said. “He must be a very lonely person.”

  “Harry does prefer a solitary existence when it comes to women.”

  “You know him well?”

  “I went to school with the Leprechaun but lost track of him when he went north,” the postmaster said. Seeing Ramona’s look of disapproval, Mr. Strickman added, “I’ll be the first to admit that when I was a kid, I got my barbs in about Harry’s size and looks. I’m not proud of that. If one could take words back, I would.”

  May 3, 1978

  With Sincerest Condolences, Nibi,

  After I received the phone call from Tomas, I could think of nothing but the good times I enjoyed with Ollie and you, of course. Such a loss is difficult to take. At least Ollie had you by his side and went quickly. Please accept my condolences. Know that Ollie has been carried by his animal spirit to a better place. You will see him again.

  I have asked Tomas to cover the cost of a plot in the cemetery for Ollie—two so that when the time comes you can be with him. But, if his wish is to be buried near your cabin, in the ground we chose for your child and the others, it must be done quickly and quietly as that is unusual in this day and age. I asked Tomas to tell you not to make a decision until you have received my letter. I apologize that I cannot come north.

  I must close. The truck driver who is delivering this letter is here to pick it up. Sending this by truck is the fastest mode that I could think of for getting a message to you. The driver is taking a load of washing machines to Winnipeg but did not have permission to carry a passenger so I am stuck here. I will see you and give an update in July. I am expecting Jonas to arrive within the next five days, after Ollie’s burial.

  Sincerely,

  Harry F.

  June 1979

  Jim Watson worked the gears to bring the bucket into line to loosen the earth near the top of the slope. To his surprise - when the gravel fell away part of something wooden came with it. A bit of fabric hung from an odd-looking hole in the area. Jim climbed down from his machine to check the debris. “What the hell?” He involuntarily stepped back then looked up at the disturbed area. “Boss! Boss!” he shouted over the sound of the diesel motor. “You’d better come take a look at this.”

  “What’s got your goat now,” the boss said, strolling across the pit.

  “You’re not going to believe what just fell from the hill,” Jim said. “Take a look.”

  “Be damned! Bones. A coffin handle.”

  “And cast your eyes to the top of the cut,” Jim said pointing toward the piece of blue cloth moving in a gentle breeze.”

  “My God! It looks like a woman’s dress and a cloth square … Good Lord! We’ve disturbed a grave.”

  “More than one, I think,” Jim said. “Look to the left of the cloth. It appears to me to be the end of another wooden coffin. We’ll need a ladder, or something solid, to climb up to see.”

  “You know what this means if word gets out?” the boss said.

  “Work stops. We’re dealing with bodies. We’ll have to call the police. I hate to say I told you so, but I did soon as we started the job.”

  “I knew there was an old graveyard on the hill at the side of the church. But I didn’t figure we were close to digging into it. No one knew for sure where the boundaries were. Nothing was written down,” the boss said.

  “Rather, whatever was recorded just happened to go missing,” Jim said. “Convenient when you’re out to make a buck if you have no scruples about you. There was a reason no one tried to build here before.”

  “Well, no one’s going to make any money off this property any time soon if word gets out about this,” the boss said.

  “This is exactly what Ramona Ashdon was talking about,” Jim said. “She told everyone that there were graves and pointed them out, tried to protect the area. Few took the time to listen to her. They’ll have to now.”

  “Not if we don’t say anything,” the boss said. “If we keep our mouths shut, clean up the evidence and plant a few bushes on the mess, the matter doesn’t go any further. The building can be shifted west a bit.”

  “You’re saying that you don’t particularly give a damn about desecrating graves or letting the authorities know what we found?”

  “The church is the one that sold the land to the guy I’m working for. I’m only responsible to him. I bet these graves are so old nobody knew the old cemetery extended to the edge of the hill.”

  “You gotta let the church or authorities know what we found. Someone has to be responsible for these remains,” Jim said. “You can’t ignore them.”

  “You dug ’em up. You clean ’em up,” the Boss said. “If you want to keep your job, you keep your mouth shut.”

  “Like hell, I will,” Jim muttered. Ramona Ashdon has gotta know, and Harry Forest too.”

  June 1979

  Crawling around the steep unstable side of the hill was not Harry’s idea of fun but the job had to be done. As no one else seemed to care it was up to him. He had secured a flashlight to each arm so that he could see what to pick up without attracting too much attention. Fortunately, the nearest house was hidden from the hill by a thick hedge of lilac bushes.

  Harry worked quickly, placing fragments of bone and cloth into a burlap bag. He’d picked bones long enough he didn’t need to identify his findings by sight.

  The snap of a dry twig on the hill above caused him to turn off both flashlights. Another snap and Harry definitely knew someone was close to the edge of the hill. If he lay still, he possibly wouldn’t be seen. He wore black clothing for just such a scenario.

  A strong beam of light tracked from left to right then stopped when it landed on his capped head. It swung left to reveal the bag then back until it lit his head again.

  “Mr. Forest? Harry? It’s Ramona Ashdon. I want to help you. Do I climb down and or should I go around and come up from the bottom to where you are?”

  “G…g…go round then climb up,” Harry whispered. “And sh… sh … shut your light off.”

  Harry lay against the bank, his right hand automatically feeling for fragments, his lights off. Did Ramona Ashdon know the trouble she could get into if she was caught picking bones on this hillside? He didn’t care about what would happen if he got caught. Ramona Ashdon in trouble was another thing.

  A few minutes later, Ramona, burlap bag in one hand, flashlight in the other, laboriously climbed up the soft, disturbed soil on the steep slope. “If I knew I’d be doing this at my age, I’d have kept myself in better shape,” she said, crouched down beside Harry. “I knew you’d be here.”

  Harry swallowed hard. Ramona, looking so much like Charlotte, unnerved him. But she meant well and wanted to help. “F… f … feel around for bones and things that aren’t stone or w…wood. Don’t turn your flashlight on unless you absolutely h … have to.”

  The moon’s full,” Ramona said. “That will help us find … things.”

  “It’s shining on us,” Harry said. “Y … you’re wearing black. That’s good.”

  “I’ve read enough murder mysteries to know that black is the colour of choice when skullduggery is at hand.”

  Harry chuckled. “An appropriate comment given what we are up to tonight. M…my apologies, Mrs. Ashdon. I … I’m not used to speaking to women.” Harry didn’t add that he definitely was not used to having any woman, especially one that looked like Charlotte, sitting so close to him.

  Ramona, sensing Harry’s nervousness, began to pat the earth near Harry’s left knee. “I’ll just start feeling around.”

  Harry, saying nothing, resumed his search. He knew exactly what Ramona’s reaction would be when she found something human. He didn’t have to wait long.

  “Oh my Lord! It’s hairy … round. Oh God! Teeth! It’s a skull!” Ramona whispered hoars
ely.

  “Turn away,” Harry said. He shone a light on Ramona’s hands. “You’re right. It is a skull. Take your hands off it and look away. I’ll put it in my bag.”

  “Is it attached to a body?” Ramona asked.

  Harry shone a light on a patch of earth above them. “It rolled out of the end of a coffin that’s been exposed, up there.”

  “I’ll pick it up,” Ramona said. “There’s no sense in me being here if I can’t do the job. It can’t … bite me now. This is so macabre!”

  Harry turned his flashlight off. “Be careful now,” he said. “Open your bag then gently lift the skull. Put it out of sight and don’t think of it again.”

  “Nightmares are what I’ll have,” Ramona said.

  “When you’ve done this as long as me, you don’t feel anything after a while. I’m wrong. You feel anger towards the ones who destroyed the graves.”

  Ramona patted the disturbed area, feeling for unusual bits, things that didn’t belong in a soft loam. Two fingers felt a small bone. As she closed her other fingers around it, she felt something round and metallic. “Harry. Is this a ring?”

  Harry shone a light on Ramona’s hand as she held up the boney object. “It is,” he said. “It’s a finger bone with a ring on it, large enough to be a man’s finger.”

  “What do you do with something like this?”

  “I … I normally bury jewelry with the bones.”

  “Where?”

  “On my property. I have a little memorial cemetery there for such … finds.” Harry changed the subject. “I’m going to climb up the slope a bit.”

  “It’s better that you get closer to the real destruction,” Ramona said. “I’m not sure I can handle seeing a corpse. Mark my word, Harry. Tomorrow, I’m going after the village officials and the church. There’s no way this should be happening.”