CHAPTER NINE
Several weeks had passed by and Wilf was feeling better. Having his father back in the house had helped. Avoiding as much as he could the town’s congratulatory attention after the arrests had helped. And regular exercise, lots of cold air, walking up and down the snowbanked and sun-blinding streets as far as his bad leg would allow. His physiotherapist back in Southend-on-Sea would have been proud.
But mainly it had to do with accepting the obvious, that he was one of the unlucky ones, one of those who had been affected too deeply by the war. It wasn’t like it was such a rarity, there were enough of them around but still it felt like a shameful weakness. Which was only pride talking. And ignorance. But he was over that now.
The man he’d seen in Cruikshank’s backyard had been nothing more than a hallucination, no matter how vibrant he looked, no matter how much more there he seemed than the trees and the snow and the railway tracks. And Cruikshank sitting frozen in his tub had nothing to do with any freezing experiment that had taken place in Germany. He’d obviously read about that experiment somewhere else and everything had gotten jumbled up in his mind.
Wilf continued his walks and tried not to think about Adrienne. He couldn’t manage it, though. He kept seeing her walking along the railway tracks, letting herself in through the side door, standing in the kitchen as quiet as a dream. And why wouldn’t the old man write out a will to sustain those nights of trembling, to feel once again her hands moving over his parched body, her cool breath against his skin? A gift from God. Angel in the moonlight. Miraculous midnight drug.
And what had been going on in Adrienne’s mind? A growing anticipation of the final act that no second thoughts could derail, an anticipation that began to turn into desire that began to turn into lust to see the old man’s face floating under the water, his white hair streaming, bubbles of amazement flying out of his mouth.
“Guess what the Chief showed me?” Stuffed from his Sunday dinner, Andy leaned back in his easy chair, king of all he surveyed. The town council had presented him with a glowing commendation for his outstanding role in the Adrienne O’Dell case and the Chief had moved him up in rank and pay. He was Sergeant Andrew Creighton now.
“What’s that?” Wilf had eased himself down on the carpet in Andy and Linda’s living room and was beginning to help Carmen put together her
Jack and the Bean Stalk
jigsaw puzzle. As soon as Andy’s promotion had been announced Linda had put her arms around Wilf’s neck, kissed him and told him that she owed him a lifetime of suppers. He’d just collected on one.
“The official statements.”
“What statements?”
“The ones Adrienne O’Dell and Tom Elbee made.”
Adrienne and her boyfriend were being held in the county jail some distance away and their trial wouldn’t begin until late summer at the earliest. Whenever it did convene Wilf knew he’d be one of the Crown’s main witnesses testifying to all he’d observed and all the bizarre actions he’d taken.
He continued to help Carmen search through the puzzle pieces.
“She’s saying more or less the same thing that her boyfriend said, only the other way around. The idea to murder Cruikshank was all Tom Elbee’s idea, she only went along with it because she was afraid of him. Afraid for her own life. He was a murderous son of a bitch, according to her. She was terrified.”
“Andy,” Linda said, “will you please remember that there are two pairs of little ears in this room?”
Six-year-old Carmen didn’t seem to be listening, she was too busy trying to find a piece for the giant’s nose. Davey, a year-and-a-half older and alerted now by his mother, looked up from his comic book.
Andy lowered his voice. “Elbee says as soon as he’d returned from overseas she was all over him about that will Cruikshank had written out, telling him exactly what they should do and how easy it would be, how the old man had treated her so badly, how he was still taking advantage of her, how he deserved to die, going over and over it day and night until he was half-crazy, until he couldn’t think straight.”
“Andy,” Linda said. “Stop it.”
“Sorry, Dear,” Andy winked at Wilf and began to pat himself down in search of his cigarettes. “Anyway, you can see there seems to be a large difference of opinion.”
“I can see that,” Wilf said.
“Makes you wonder whose idea it really was.”
Wilf found the missing piece for the giant’s nose, handed it to Carmen and kept his silence. He knew as well as he knew his own name whose idea it had been. He was carrying her around inside himself now, feeling everything she had felt every step of the way. It had been Adrienne’s.
* * *
By the end of February Wilf had talked to the Dean at the college of law he was planning to attend and to the Registrar’s Office. It seemed that rejoining his law studies in mid-semester was not out of the question. At the very least he could monitor some classes. Managing to get this much finally organized put him in an exuberant mood. On impulse he asked Carole out for supper and a movie. As usual, Carole was typing.
“When?”
“Well, I don’t know. How about tonight?”
“Tonight?” She continued on with her typing.
“Unless you’ve got something else planned.” Wilf sat down at Dorothy Dale’s desk. As was often the case he’d been late coming in to work. “Or we could go out Saturday night instead.”
Carole continued to finish the paragraph she was working on; it gave her more time to think. She assumed he was talking about going to Brantford since they didn’t have a movie theatre in town and she was wondering how they’d traverse the seven miles. On several occasions she’d overheard heated conversations between Wilf and his father concerning Wilf’s continued use of the car. Apparently Mr. McLauchlin didn’t think that driving with just one arm and a damaged leg was such a good idea. Not to mention the absence of a licence.
Carole stopped typing. “Okay.”
“I’ll pick you up at six. The movie doesn’t start until eight. That should give us lots of time.”
“What’s playing?”
“I have no idea. I should have looked it up.”
Carole smiled. “Sounds like fun,” she said.
They ate supper at a busy restaurant just around the corner from the theatre. Carole had recovered more quickly from the Adrienne O’Dell affair than Wilf had, though she’d been deeply shaken by the thought that someone she actually knew could do such a thing, and that what Wilf had surmised was going on between old Mr. Cruikshank and Adrienne, what she herself had half-suspected, was apparently true. Everyone was still talking about it. She was trying to put it out of her mind.
Carole took off her coat in the crowded dining room. Wilf could see that she’d worn the pink wool sweater he’d given her.
Her cheeks coloured a little.
“It looks good,” Wilf said.
“I don’t usually wear pink. It makes me look five years old.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
They sat down in a booth facing each other. Sooner or later I’ll have to try and see if I work, Wilf was thinking to himself, and I might as well try with Carole as with anyone else. He smiled at her. Carole smiled back. She picked up a menu and began to read through it.
Her grey eyes are beautiful, anyway, Wilf thought to himself. He did an inventory. Cheekbones assertive but at the same time as delicately arched as a small bird’s wings. Long ascetic face in a battle with her lips that were nicely rounded and sensuous when they weren’t being skeptical. And yes, promising things that being a proper girl her mouth would never say.
Wilf could feel a ripple of excitement tickle across his stomach. It seemed faint though, more like a memory of good times past than anything else. It felt more like fear.
Anyway, Carole would be understanding if things didn’t turn out the way they were supposed to, that was the type of person she seemed to be. And whatever disappointment ensued she’d be discreet about it, no one else would ever know. She’d been well trained by Dorothy Dale.
Wilf smiled a little to himself.
“What are you thinking about?” Carole asked over her menu.
“Nothing. How nice this is, being with you. We should have done this before.”
Carole regarded him with her light-grey eyes. Wilf had no idea what she was thinking. Possibly about her soldier fiancÈ. And betrayal.
“I’m really looking forward to the movie,” she said.
After they’d had their supper and were lining up outside the theatre, Carole observed that most of the people who’d been eating in the restaurant were lining up for the same movie. Apparently this was a good sign. Wilf had paid for supper and was going to treat her to the movie and so Carole insisted on paying for the popcorn and the soft drinks. They climbed up the carpeted stairs to the loges and as soon as they sat down Wilf pulled out a flask from inside his winter coat and spiked her drink. He topped up his, as well.
They’d made the trip down to Brantford without too much difficulty. Wilf had perfected a method of shifting gears while bracing his sling against the steering wheel. It began to snow on the drive back home. Carole watched the large flakes race through the headlights and tried not to look too concerned. They discussed the movie. Carole thought Deanna Durbin was terrific. Wilf thought she was a little put on.
“She’s supposed to be put on. It’s a comedy.”
“A comedy, a mystery and a musical. A weird combination. I don’t know,” Wilf said.
“And a romance. It was very romantic.”
“If you believed it.”
“I believed it.” Carole began to fiddle with the radio, spinning the dial through all the talk searching for some music. “I think you really enjoyed it. You just don’t want to say.” She settled on a live broadcast from a ballroom in a fancy hotel somewhere in the United States. Lots of saxophones. “Men don’t want to be seen liking anything that’s romantic.”
“Hold the steering wheel, will you?” Wilf said.
Carole held the wheel. Wilf pulled out his flask and offered her a drink. She took the flask and Wilf grabbed the wheel again.
“This is illegal, you know. Your father would be very disappointed.” She took a healthy sip. “Anyway, she’s a great singer.”
“Who?”
“Deanna Durbin.”
It was almost twelve o’clock by the time Wilf parked the car in front of Carole’s house. A few doors down and through a curtain of falling snow he could see three rows of lights. One of the several large textile mills in town was running a full night shift.
On the way back they’d stopped at a restaurant to share a plate of fries. Wilf talked about going back to college, that it was all settled now, he could resume anytime. And he told her that once he’d finished his studies he wasn’t too keen about returning to McLauchlin and McLauchlin. He’d been thinking instead about working in the city for a while and then travelling.
Carole told him that she’d been thinking about travelling, too. She liked the idea of being an independent businesswoman making her solitary way in the world. She’d been mulling over the possibility of applying for a job in Montreal. Or maybe New York City.
“Not Toronto?”
“No.”
They’d sat there by the window watching the odd car go by and they’d agreed that settling down wasn’t for either one of them, that they’d probably turn out to be a pair of rolling stones.
“I had a nice time,” Carole said, addressing the rows of lights in the mill.
“So did I.”
“Are you coming into the office tomorrow?”
“Maybe.”
Carole’s home was sitting in darkness on the edge of the smaller of the two rivers that ran through the town. Wilf reached over and touched her hair. Her eyes seemed to wince a little as if it hurt her to be touched. She met him halfway when he leaned forward, though. Her lips were soft and just as warm and inviting as he’d anticipated. She opened them a little.
She’s done this before, Wilf thought, amusing himself. His hand trailed down her cheek. The back of his fingers touched her soft neck.
“Good night, Wilf,” Carole said, and smiled at him and got out of the car.
* * *
Carole’s bedroom light flared on.
Duncan pressed against the tree he’d been standing behind. Darkness swirled around and around. Snow fell down and hissed false insinuations in his ears.
Everything was wrong. Everything was muddled up. He pressed his forehead against the bark of the tree until it hurt. He couldn’t go home.
He knew who he was. He was Duncan Laurence Getty. He was just like all the soldiers who’d come back from overseas. He was just like all the men who worked in the bush.
Duncan looked back toward the house and thought of his own house in the country sitting like a giant ghost in the dark. There was a light in a window out there, too. As he thought about that light, he trembled.
He wanted to see Carole, her reassuring face, her slim familiar body. He knew exactly what most of her sweaters looked like. Her blouses. Her dresses and skirts. He knew them all off by heart.
A branch cracked sharply somewhere. Ice creaked on the river. What if someone was coming?