Grave Deeds (6 page)

“He wasn't very friendly.”

“That's Roger, all right. He and Harold were a perfect pair: supercilious and condescending. Not that I'm prejudiced, of course.” She laughed. “I could never understand how Ellen
could stand him. But then she's Harold's sister. Anyone who grew up with Harold would be used to chauvinism. Or immune to it.”

“I won't have to deal with him again, I hope. It's his uncle who's my aunt's lawyer. Markham was just along for the ride.”

“Roger has never, in living memory, done anything without a reason. And that reason usually has something to do with making money. You'd better watch out for him. Maybe he's representing someone else in the family. Did your aunt have children?”

“That's funny.” I thought suddenly of the picture of the girl holding a cat, and how quickly the lawyers left once Gianelli started questioning them about other heirs. “No one said anything about her own family, just talked about my grandfather and my parents.”

“I wonder if she married a Baker on purpose, just to change her name that way — from Cook to Baker. Would you call that a step up in the social scale?” She bit into another brownie.

“We hardly talked about her at all, even though we were sitting in her house and she'd died right there in the front hallway.” I shivered. “I wish I had had a chance to talk to her.”

“So why did she leave you this cottage? And why don't you want it? I'd give my eyeteeth to have a place to go to, to get out of this city in the summer. Or to sell, and have all that lovely money to spend.”

“She didn't leave me the cottage, my grandfather did. He didn't get along with my mother…”

“Sounds like my family.” She picked up another brownie, caught my eye, and placed it on the plate again. “Do you think there's any such thing as a happy family?”

“Not that I know of. Anyway, that's why I don't think I should keep the property. Mom hated the Cooks so much, she even told me they were all dead so that I'd stop asking questions about them. If I took something from them, it would be like denying her, saying that all her sacrifice was for nothing.”

“Now, wait just a minute.” Bonnie stood up and began to pace, her hair swinging back and forth. “First, your mother isn't here to be hurt by whatever you do or don't do. Second, perhaps leaving you the property was a way for your grandfather to
make up to you, something he couldn't do while he was still alive. Third, land is land. Someone has to own it. Why not you?”

“I don't feel right about it.”

Bonnie groaned.

We watched while the sky outside deepened to the silvery gray that passed for darkness in the heart of the city. I pushed my mug away and stood. “I'm beat. I want to get out of these clothes and have a long, hot bath.”

“How's the studying going?”

“Don't ask.”

“Has a date been set for your exams yet?”

“End of June.” I shivered. “I've been dreaming about high school again: Grade 13 and I have to write a physics exam but I've skipped classes all year. If I fail, I won't be able to go to university. And of course, I get the time wrong and can't find the room. I'm walking down a long empty hall in squeaky shoes; all the doors are closed and I know I'm late.”

“I hate those dreams,” Bonnie sympathized.

“Stupid thing is, I didn't even take physics in my last year in high school.”

“Drink hot milk before you go to bed. It always works for Ryan.” She bit her lip on the name.

Another minefield. I sneaked a glance at my watch: past seven. Will would be wondering what had happened to me.

Bonnie buried her face in a tea towel. When she looked up, her eyes were suspiciously bright, but there were no signs of tears. “I'm sick of crying over this. Robin says I have to let go, that there's no way we can get custody.”

“I thought you'd worked that out,” I ventured. “Didn't you settle on reasonable visiting rights?”

“Reasonable! One weekend once a month in Ottawa. It's totally unfair. They're my kids. Ryan's nine, old enough to recognize the lies, but Megan's only four. How's she supposed to ever get to know me? She was just a baby when I left, when I had to leave. I'm just a visitor to her.”

“Aren't you exaggerating just a little? She seemed pretty happy with you and Robin when I met her here last fall.”

“My mother was here too,” Bonnie said. “My own children don't know me.” She sniffled.

“I don't know what to say that I haven't said before.” I stood
up. I wanted to go, but couldn't leave her here like this. “I never even knew I had a father until I was her age, and then my mother wouldn't talk about him. I imagined all kinds of things. At least you're there in her life. She'll get to know you…”

“She hides under the blankets when I come to get her. She cries all the way to my mother's house and when we get there, she won't let me touch her. Every weekend it's the same: by the time she's willing to be friends with me again, it's time for her to go home. Sometimes I wonder if it's worth the effort.”

“Bonnie!”

“It's so hard,” she cried. “Ryan can be so rude, you wouldn't believe it. It's all Harold's fault, the stories he tells them about me.”

“You don't know that he does that,” I pointed out. “He is a teacher, after all. He must deal with kids from broken homes all the time. Surely he wouldn't try to make the situation more difficult for them by criticizing you. And he does let you visit.”

“On his terms.”

“Maybe it's what the kids need right now, the security of being in their own place…”

“It's been three years,” Bonnie retorted. “It would be so much better if I could have them with me all the time.”

“What about Robin? How does he feel about them? And what about your job? And your degree? And where would they go to school?”

“You're as bad as my mother,” she sighed. “She says it serves me right, I should never have left them. What does she know? Her marriage was a disaster from day one and she only made it worse for all of us by staying in it.”

“Do you have to take them to your mother's house?”

“I can't afford a hotel. And none of my so-called friends will speak to me. They all blame me for leaving Harold, the 'perfect husband and provider.' If they only knew. Do you know what he used to do?”

“I don't want to hear this, Bonnie.”

She paid no attention. “He'd put white threads on the kitchen floor in the corners or under the shelves. If they were still there after I housecleaned, he'd make me scrub the floor again, on my hands and knees, with a toothbrush. He was real tricky about it: he didn't do it every week, so I was never sure if
they'd be there or not. Sometimes, he pretended to find them in places I knew I'd double-checked. He said it was for my own good. He said it was to make sure I kept his house clean enough for his children to grow up in.”

“How could you live with such a man?”

“I couldn't. That's why meeting Robin was so wonderful. He really cared about me, my wants, my needs. I didn't believe a man could be so understanding.”

“Don't any of your friends like him?”

“They're mostly Harold's friends, from work. All they see is how young Robin is. Ten years difference isn't that big a deal, is it? If it was reversed and he was the one who was older, no one would think anything of it.”

“You shouldn't let what other people think bother you so much. If you and Robin are happy together…”

“And what about my kids?” she interrupted. “It's his fault they can't come here any more. Harold used to let my mother bring them down here to visit, if I couldn't get up to Ottawa. Then last Thanksgiving — you heard the fuss she made when Robin brought that street kid home for dinner. The whole city heard her.”

“It wasn't that bad…”

“You should have seen her face when Megan picked a cockroach out of that boy's backpack! I thought she'd die on the spot.” She affected a kind of giggle that turned into a gulping sob. She jumped up from the table and ran into the bathroom.

I carried the tea things back into the kitchen and then stood in the little hall, unsure what to do next. The front door opened.

“Hey, Rosie, how's it going?” Robin dropped a canvas bag on the floor. A half-peeled orange fell out along with an assortment of pencils and a dog-eared paperback.

“You got home after all.” I shook his hand. Robin Elgin was a bean-pole of a man, over six feet tall and thin to boot. In his late twenties, he was already going bald and perhaps for that reason, or perhaps to camouflage his full lips and weak chin, he sported a full moustache and beard. Today, as on every working day, he wore a tweed sports jacket over a turtleneck shirt and blue jeans.

The toilet flushed. He pushed his glasses back up his nose
and nodded towards the back of the apartment. “She all right?” he whispered.

“A bit upset. She started talking about the kids again.”

He grimaced. “It's a bad scene.”

Bonnie joined us. “You're home,” she said. She reached up to peck him on the cheek. “I thought you had to go up north on business?”

“I was going to leave straight from work, they kept me so late. But I wanted to see you first. We should talk.” He glanced at me. “I guess it can wait.” He slipped by me into the kitchen. “Great, dinner's ready. I'm starving.”

“I won't stay. I really must go and phone Will.” I opened the door. “You'll be all right?”

“Sure.” She scuffed her toe. “Sorry about all that. I thought I was over it.”

“It takes time.” What a dumb thing to say, I thought savagely. But what else could I say?

“Yeah. It's just… things are piling up, tuition, exams, those visits to Ottawa. I'm pretty stressed out right now. But listen, are you going to go to your aunt's funeral? Do you want me to come with you? Or do you think Will might come down for it?”

“I haven't thought about it yet. I guess Mr. Ross will let me know when it is. I'll talk to you when I hear from him.” I paused, one hand on the outer door knob. Robin had come back to the hall, a pot in one hand and fork in the other.

“This is terrific,” he said, holding the pot towards me. “Want to try some?”

“I really have to go.” I edged out into the hall.

“Do you have to eat out of the pot like that?” Bonnie complained, her voice rising. “Are you in such a hurry you can't even sit and eat like a civilized human being? You're worse than Ryan.”

I could see Robin flush. “You know I don't have much time, especially if you want me back before morning.”

“All right.” She pushed him towards the kitchen. “At least go into the other room so Rosie doesn't have to watch the way you eat. I'll be with you in a moment.” She turned back to me. “That's all right, then? You will call if you need me?” She began closing the door.

“Yeah. Thanks for the tea.”

She nodded. I listened to the click of the safety lock and then the fading whine of her voice. What a pair they were.

The phone was ringing as I unlocked my own door, but had stopped before I reached it. It must have been Will. I longed to talk to him, someone who wasn't so obsessed with his own problems that he wouldn't listen to mine. I wouldn't have to explain my desolation to him, how my grief at losing my aunt before even meeting her warred with my excitement about discovering that I did have roots - and not only roots, but family land.

While counting the telephone rings at home, I allowed myself to fantasize, picturing both an imposing rural mansion with two bathrooms and a sauna, perched on rocks above a white sand beach, and a one-room log cabin nestled in pine trees by a rocky shore. I put down the phone. Will must be out walking Sadie. Sadie will love it up north, I thought.

I lit a candle and placed it on the toilet seat, turned the hot water on full and poured a generous amount of orange cream oil into the tub. Fragrant steam filled the small bathroom. I left the water running while I went to dial Will again. A fragment of tune repeated itself in my head, a song my mother used to sing when we walked back together, hand in hand, from an outing. “Show me the way to go home,” I sang aloud.

This time, Will answered my call.

I couldn't find any notice of Aunt Beatrice's funeral, nor was there any mention, even in the most sensational local paper, of the peculiar circumstances of her strange death and her house full of cats. I waited a couple of days before calling the offices of Ross, Armour and Markham. The receptionist had a thin, nasal voice which sang through the company name with an irritating lilt. When I asked for Mr. Ross, she said he wasn't in. I hesitated before mentioning Roger Markham. There was a long wait before he answered his phone. I listened to a whining violin rendition of “Hey Jude.” Just as a chorus of horns broke out in fanfare, Markham came on the line.

“What can I do for you, Ms. Cairns?” His voice was brusque but polite, the voice of a busy man interrupted in the middle of important work.

“I'm phoning to ask about Aunt Beatrice,” I said. “I'd like to go to her funeral.”

“She didn't have one. At her own request it was a very private affair. She was cremated this morning.”

“Oh.” I felt bereft. I'd never met her, and now had been denied the chance to mourn. Although, of course, it wouldn't have been the woman I missed, but the chance to be rooted in family. Ah well, that was nothing new.

“I imagine,” Markham drawled, “that you want to know about the land.”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

“No big surprise.”

“Pardon?”

“I wondered how long it would take you to call.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing,” he snickered.