by Pat Mestern
“Don’t mention that we were here gathering bones,” Harry said. “We could be charged with grave robbery. You won’t get anywhere with the village fathers. You’ll be ignored by the council, church, and developers.”
“Maybe not,” Ramona said. “What if I showed them the ring and a few finger bones? What if I go to the local newspaper? Better yet, what if I take some pictures and approach the larger circulation newspapers?”
“That might work but I … I wouldn’t bet on the strategy,” Harry said. “Everyone will want to know how they ended up in your possession.”
“I won’t involve you. I’ll tell them that I found them just before the crest of the hill … while I was out walking … my neighbour’s dog. I’ll say that I noticed damage to the hill … and I had to pull the dog away from something he was interested in … chewing. I’ve already written letters to the local paper about this very thing happening. The property should never have been sold. The area is so close to the old cemetery the church officials should have realized there’d be problems. The cemetery’s boundaries were always in dispute.”
“I will help but there’s no sense in my appearing before any committee. Everyone thinks I’ve got a screw loose. They figure that I’m an eccentric, silly little man who takes pleasure in picking bones.”
“I’ve heard what people say,” Ramona said. “But you are an unusually kind man, sir. I can understand why my aunt loved you.”
“Y…y … you didn’t know Charlotte. You weren’t even born when she died.”
“Grandmother and I had a good chat,” Ramona said. “What I know stays with me. You know the old saying, what’s hatched in the cellar, leaves the cellar. What’s conjured in the brain, stays in the brain.”
Harry laughed. “What’s conjured in the brain only stays in the brain as long as one has a brain capable of remembering.”
“Well, you’re doing nothing wrong as far as I’m concerned. You loved my aunt. You knew her spirit. You protect her bones. You protect everyone’s bones … because you care.”
“That I do,” Harry said. “Everyone deserves to rest in … peace.”
Summer 1980
Whoever owned the ’68 Javelin before Ramona must have had a heavy foot. The car always settled in at 77 mph on a long straight run. She’d chosen the back roads to return from dropping Lorraine off at a meeting of musicians in Mississauga, knowing the police rarely patrolled the gravel byways. Comfortable behind the wheel, she sang along with Alex Beaton to “These Are My Mountains” from the tape that was always in the portable player in the car.
Just after slowing for a crossroads ten miles from home, she noticed a man on the side of the road, in front of an old cemetery. She recognized him immediately by the burlap bag he held, and a bright green bicycle leaning against one of the stone gateposts.
“What on earth?” Ramona exclaimed as she slowed the car and pulled onto the gravel shoulder near the gate.
The man never looked up to see who had stopped.
Ramona got out of the car and walked up to him. “Mr. Forest. Harry. What are you doing here? You’re miles from home and it’s going to rain again soon by the look of the clouds on the western horizon.”
Harry gave Ramona a quick nod and said, “Been out in worse. I knew that big storm last night would wash the shoulder away. There’s bones need picking. My uncle is buried here.”
“You rode your bike all the way out here?”
“O … only way for me to get here,” Harry said.
“Well, I’m giving you a ride home. I’ve got a tether strap. Your bike can go in the trunk.”
“I need to finish looking,” Harry said.
“Then I’ll help you,” Ramona said.
“After you move your car,” Harry said. “B…backup to the fence line. You might be parked on bones.”
Several hours later Ramona pulled into Harry’s drive. “Do you want me to help you with … well, you know what.”
“No,” Harry said firmly. He got out of the car to retrieve his bike and the bag. Then he walked toward the house.
Ramona knew enough not to interfere or to leave the vehicle. She did roll her window down and called, “Mr. Forest? Harry. The next time you go bone picking, call me. I’ll drive you back here or wherever you want to go. I have to pick Lorraine up in two days’ time.”
Harry turned, smiled, and raised his hand to indicate he’d heard her.
Chapter 6
June 2004
Castello dei Sogni
The coffee was hot and the mocha cake delicious but Ramona had no appetite after Lorraine dropped the bombshell. “They’re going to do what?” she asked.
“They’re going to sell the church property and use the money to build a modern church up the highway.”
“What about the old burial ground? We both know how that was disturbed in 1979 when the west part of the property was disturbed.”
“What bothers me is that some in authority say there isn’t even a burial ground on the property. And I’ve heard that they’ll move what bodies or graves are found,”
“They being …?”
“Some of the members of the church. There are so few old members left to complain. That’s why I thought we should talk. You and Harry Forest did approach the village council in ’79 about the graves that were disturbed at that time. There has to be a record of that presentation. Wrong word! From what I remember it ended up being a big confrontation!”
“It sure was, Lorraine. But you have to be kidding about any records being kept. I bet they were conveniently lost or misplaced. There are so few of us now that care about built heritage and buried history. I got the distinct feeling at the time that we, and our opinions, really don’t count. That’s why I stopped attending church.”
“Well, this time they’re making sure that there’s nothing in the local papers about their plans,” Lorraine said. “All’s been kept very quiet. I just happened to … overhear a conversation. I’ve had reservations about attending services for some time now too. But, I thought I should continue because I might hear something useful. Lately I’ve become a persona non grata as far as the present congregation is concerned.”
“I’m furious that they’d even think of building a church somewhere else. Why don’t they restore the heritage building and add to it? An addition can be made that would incorporate the burial ground, elevated wings with the graves below. Think of the catacombs in Rome. What’s needed is people with vision and imagination.”
“Not the kind of imagination that puts an historic burial ground up for sale,” Lorraine said. “I know that there are provincial rules about cemeteries, but any devious developer can get around them. To lose such a heritage site is, quite simply put, stupidity!”
“Think of the marriages, baptisms, and funerals that were performed in the church, the history, the heritage, the significance of the building for the community as a whole,” Ramona said. “My family have a long history with that building, my baptism, first communion, confirmation, the funerals of my great grandparents, my grandfather and grandmother, Dad and Mother, my wedding.”
“From experience, I can say that most developers don’t give a damn about what’s destroyed in their rush to build another condo building. Take my word for it. The church structure is doomed. And the cemetery … I can’t even think about what will happen to the remains. This sort of diabolical issue would not happen in Italy!”
“When you did mention the extent of the cemeteries, the burials all round the church, not only those disturbed on the hillside, what reaction did you get?”
“No one would listen, nor would most believe me, Ramona. You’re the only one that might have some clout. Your ancestors have been in the village a long time. You’re the one who needs to get involved. A tenacious oldie needs to get under the skin of the few know-it-alls. You’ve taken up a few important causes before—and won.”
“What makes you think I could win this one?”
“You m
ight not, but at least you’ll give it a good try,” Lorraine said. “I’ll help you wherever and whenever I can though. It’s too bad that Harry Forest died. He would have chewed a few of the beggars out, but good. There are a few people will back you up.”
“Gawd, Lorraine. That’s all I need at the moment. We’ve been through a lot over the years, but this one is definitely the worst possible.
Castello dei Sogni
“I think we have something very much in common,” Don said. “We’ve both lost people that were close to us … suddenly. We didn’t have a chance to adjust to the thought of being alone before we were thrust into a situation that sent us reeling into unknown territory. Do you feel like talking about it?”
Ramona thought for a moment. Did she really want to open the wounds again? But then, had they ever properly healed? “You want to talk about your mother,” she said.
“Yes. I feel the need to chat with someone who might understand the emotional roller-coaster I went through after her death. The problem is that I had no one to talk to.”
“Everyone was kind, the neighbours, our friends,” Ramona said. “They all said the right things and called for perhaps a month then went about their own business. I was alone, desperate for companionship, some sort of direction. The physical pain, headaches, tension brought on by the shock of the loss were difficult to handle. They took a long time to heal.”
“Same thing in my situation,” Don said. “A man’s supposed to be tough, to be able to handle everything, to get on with life. I couldn’t. There was only mother.” Don hesitated a moment to gather his thoughts. “I’m going to tell you something no one else knows. To make the story simple, I was adopted in 1940. I don’t remember my adoptive dad. He went overseas and was killed in Holland so I never knew the man, but for several pictures mother had. I say ‘had’ because when I finally got around to wanting to know more, I couldn’t find the photographs.”
“Oh my,” Ramona said. “You have been through a rough time.”
“Yes, I won’t deny that. To make matters a little more complicated, I didn’t know that I had been adopted until just before Mother died. I was sitting by her bedside, holding her hand. She hadn’t been lucid for some hours. I didn’t expect her to speak again. But, she suddenly squeezed my hand, opened her eyes, and began to whisper so low I had to lean in very close to listen. She said “I love you, Donald. I didn’t birth you but you were my baby, my gifted baby, my beautiful child, my handsome young man. Your … your mother … your mother ….’ Then her hand went slack and she slipped away.”
Ramona was speechless. She reached across to hold Don’s hands.
“I went through every personal item and paper she had. There were no adoption papers. There was a mention in one of Dad’s letters from the front that he was pleased I was gifted to them. He looked forward to coming home to be with his family.”
“Gifted?”
“What mother said on her death bed and that word—gifted—really threw me. I was upset for quite a while. The person I called Mother was not my birth mother. I never knew my adoptive father. And I’ve not been able to find any information about my birth parents because I don’t know where to start looking. I grieved for all of them. I didn’t know where to turn for help, first with the grieving.”
“I found out that although there are professional resources to turn to, grief counseling went only so far. Getting through the nights was difficult,” Ramona said.
“For me it was the days,” Don said. “I took it one minute at a time, one hour at a time, one day at a time. I’ll be truthful. My nerves were shot for a while. People said, ‘Oh, for Pete’s sake, it’s time to move on.’ They didn’t know the whole story.”
“Some people can be so insensitive! Grief doesn’t draw lines or make distinctions between mothers, husbands, brothers, sisters.”
“I came to the conclusion that there must be some finality to my situation, regardless of how complicated it might be,” Don said. “I imagine that there are many, many people who felt … feel just like me and like you too.”
“I’m sure that there are. I just didn’t feel like getting out much to find out, not for a long time,” Ramona said. “I isolated myself to grieve. And when I did manage to go somewhere, no one wanted to talk about John.”
“Most people run from their feelings, or hide them,” Don said. “Human beings have fine-tuned that art, if it can be so called. And they don’t want to open new doors. But I have this … hole in my heart. I need to find my birth mother and know who my real dad is, or was. I realize both could be dead by now.”
“I have a question. I assume that you have begun the process of finding who your birth parents were. The first thing you should do is have a DNA test done. Goodness, you might have siblings.”
“Recently I have made some enquires. I haven’t considered a DNA test.”
“Well, you’ll have to do something about that at some point,” Ramona said. “Perhaps after Harry’s estate has been sorted out you can devote some time to yourself.”
Don smiled. It was so good to finally have someone know his story. “Look at us, Ramona. We’re sitting here on a fine summer’s day, feeling sorry for ourselves when we could be out enjoying the good weather. How be we visit Harry’s house? I have to check it periodically, just in case some hooligans think it is fair game and break in. Until I have certain answers, the estate can’t be settled. And you must see how Harry lived.”
“From the look of the outside of the house, I’d venture that the land is far more valuable than the structure on it,” Ramona said.
“Even though the house is built of stone, it’s in pretty bad shape, a real fixer-upper for someone. Harry spent more time in a log cabin at the back of the property than he did in the main house.”
“I didn’t know that a cabin existed.”
“It’s well-hidden in the cedars. I’ll call Major in from the yard and then to the car we’ll go—hi ho, hi ho.”
“Don, you do make me laugh! Major has gotten quite comfortable with both the cat and the yard. I think he accepted Castello dei Sogni as his.”
“Is that a bad thing?” Don asked.
“Not at all because I’m becoming very attached to the pooch. Give me ten minutes to freshen up. I can’t go a-callin’ in this getup,” Ramona said. “I wasn’t expecting to see you so you caught me in my clean-the-basement clothes.”
Don drove slowly up the overgrown drive and stopped in front of the dilapidated stone house. As soon as he stepped out of the car, Major pushed himself between the driver and passenger seats and leapt out. He stood for a moment, barking at the house then disappeared around a corner.
“How a dog that size moves so fast amazes me,” Ramona said, coming round the vehicle to stand beside Don. “Even after all these months without Harry he’s glad to be home, I’d say. Dogs don’t easily forget their past.”
“I was going to be chivalrous and open your door,” Don said, “But, Major played checkmate. He reacts the same way every time we check the property.”
“Chivalry is not dead if the thought is there,” Ramona said.
“I wonder if the dog still thinks his master is around. He’s headed for the cabin.”
“Animals are most perceptive. Perhaps Harry Forest hasn’t … exited. Have you given thought to that possibility?”
“Are you talking about ghosts?”
“Perhaps,” Ramona said. “I’d think that if he is still around, a cabin rather than the house would be more to Harry’s spiritual liking.”
“Come on now. You can’t be serious about there being ghosts,” Don said.
“I keep all options open although my personal opinion about Harry is that he didn’t hang around. He’s with Charlotte, wherever she may be. It’s hard to say isn’t it, where or what happens after death.”
“It didn’t used to be if you were raised a Christian,” Don said. “You were destined for either heaven or hell. But, yes, I’d say unequivocally th
at Harry and Charlotte are together.”
“Or purgatory, if there was unfinished business and if one was raised Catholic.”
“Whatever,” Don said, a bit uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was taking.
“I just don’t believe anymore, at least not with the fervor I once did. Think about this, Don. Maybe this purgatory thing is really earth where spirits hang out until they resolve whatever’s bothering them? And sometimes when they hang around, certain people have the ability to see them.”
“You’re getting into deep territory here on a subject I’ve not given much thought to,” Don said.
“I’m just in my rumination mode,” Ramona said. “Pay me no mind. Let’s tour the house.”
“Please don’t be too surprised by what you see. Harry was not … conventional with some of his decorative touches.”
“Lead on, Don. My eyes are portals to a very active mind and I’m well aware of Harry’s eccentricities.”
Don unlocked the front door, pushed it open, plucked a large rock from a huge basket near the door, and used it as a doorstop. “First anomaly, Harry’s favourite things included rocks. There are baskets of rocks everywhere in the house. The one thing I can’t get used to is the musty smell of the place.”
“It’s typical for an old house,” Ramona said. “By the way, the rock holding the door is feldspar, and a fine example too. As for the smell, unless the house is aired daily, you’ll never rid it of the smell. You could try charcoal. It absorbs odours. Put some trays of it in a few rooms. I use pie pans. The kind that one burns in an old-fashioned barbeque is what should be used.”
“You are just a warehouse of information,” Don said.
Ramona laughed. “At my age, I have a head full of useless trivia.”
Harry’s house was of basic design, a front-to-back centre hall that led to the kitchen tail. There were one room on the left side and two rooms on the right side of the hall in the main section. The centre hall steps which led to the upper level had a decorative banister and small closet built-in beneath. The hall was devoid of decoration except for beige wallpaper that had begun to peel off in dark, damp corners. There was no furniture, no pictures, no carpeting on the worn wood floor.