Cut to the Quick (15 page)

In her room, she connected to the internet. The
Globe and
Mail
came up automatically. She'd subscribed in order to download the cryptic crossword. Now she went to death notices and typed Valerie Lefevbre. There it was—Lefevbre, Valerie Emmanuelle. Died suddenly in a traffic accident in Toronto. Left to mourn her untimely death are her father Sebastien, mother Lindsay Inkster...

A traffic accident. There had to be a connection to Ivan's death. A cold chill—someone had tramped over her grave. Ivan too had died in a crash. It hadn't been an accident. Lefevbre had vowed to make Curt's life more miserable. Would he have known whose bike was whose? Was he the one who had cut the brakes?

T
ime
to go through Ivan's belongings. She collected her notebook and pen. Trailed by MacTee, she flicked the switch illuminating the basement stairwell. Downstairs, cool damp air wrapped itself around her. She examined the space. Light bulbs dangled from the low ceiling. Wooden walls of horizontal boards divided the cavernous cellar into a maze of small rooms. An antiquated many-armed furnace took up most of the first room. Miscellaneous furniture, including an ornate walnut dining room set, almost filled the second. In the third she found stacked boxes. Someone, presumably Manon, had printed “Ivan's clothes” on the top one. Since she didn't fancy sitting on cold concrete while she rummaged through the containers, she collected a heavy dining room chair from the second room, lugged it back and set it under the solitary low wattage light.

The time had come. She acknowledged her own reluctance to dig into the flotsam and jetsam of Ivan's life. No avoiding it, however—she had promised to help Manon. She shoved the clothes carton aside and lined up boxes labelled, “books”, “papers” and “memorabilia”.

A flip through high school notebooks—messy, scratchedover notes and papers sprinkled with teacher's corrections and low grades told her Ivan had not been a good student. But she already knew this. The question was—why had he kept this material? Perhaps he hadn't intended to. He'd stashed them when high school ended and never considered them again.

Dozens of photo albums filled a second box. One set was dated. The earliest went back to Ivan's teen years. Inside, each plastic pocket intended for a 4 x 6 photo held one or more recipes. Ivan had identified sources and dates. Often he'd paired recipes with a file card describing problems he'd experienced when he'd tried the recipe and added suggestions for improvements or variations. A second collection of photo albums was identified by subject. Appetizers, seafood, desserts— whatever the category, its name was printed on the cover.

A keen cook, she yearned to read what amounted to a chef 's diary. Regretfully, she postponed the treat until she finished her investigation. The collection revealed two things; the scope of his passion and his methodical, investigative nature. She thumbed through the last volumes—recipes he'd collected during his year at George Brown. Towards the back she found a hand-written, numbered list of names and phone numbers with asterisks beside some numbers. She recognized the names of some of his fellow students. She'd spoken to these young men and women at the visitation or funeral. She pocketed the card, intending to phone and ask more questions about Ivan.

A wave of fatigue engulfed her. It had been a long day. Upstairs she hooked MacTee to his leash for his before-bed walk. Standing outside, she reconsidered. Manon would have a fit if she thought Hollis had left Etienne alone. She apologized to MacTee and went back in.

Because the dog still needed a walk, she couldn't go to bed. Instead, she unlocked the French doors and moved to the garden. Stretched out on Curt's chaise lounge, she considered his magazine pile and chose
Canadian Art
because the first article, “Painters' Early Influences”, caught her attention. The writer paid particular attention to Mary Pratt and her artistic references to her childhood on Waterloo Row in Fredericton. Then he identified artists who had hidden backgrounds. He speculated whether an examination of their art would provide clues to their pasts.

One was Lena Kalma, the drama queen who rode on the edge of hysteria, revelled in conflict and professed to hate her ex-husband. The article hinted that the tabloids would love Lena's secrets but gave no other information.

Ivan had lived half his life with Lena and possessed half her genes. The reasons why Lena hid her past might provide a clue to Ivan's secretive personality. She'd grit her teeth and talk to Lena about her background. She shuddered but knew she had to do it.

When Manon and Curt returned a few minutes later, she didn't mention Lena—time enough for that later. “Why didn't you warn me about the phone calls? They must drive you crazy. Have you reported them? I'm sure uttering threats is illegal.”

“Our number's listed under M. C. Dumont. I don't know how those creeps find us,” Curt said.

“Not ‘us' darling, ‘you'. It's you they want,” Manon said.

Hollis hoped no one ever would call her “darling” in that tone. “It was a woman screaming about Hitler and murder.

What was that about?”

“A
SOHD
opponent,” Manon said flatly.

“Sod—what is it?”

“Curt can tell you—he's the supporter. In fact, as of a couple of weeks ago, he's president of the local weirdos chapter.”

“If
your
son died because medical treatment wasn't available, I don't think you'd be quite such a bitch,” Curt snarled.

“Please, tell me what you're talking about?” Hollis intervened.

Curt swept his hand through his hair and assumed a “professorial” stance. “I've told you I'm on the waiting list for heart surgery?”

Hollis nodded.

“And the ambulance didn't take Ivan to the nearest trauma hospital—they drove halfway across the city, and he died shortly after he arrived.”

Again Hollis nodded.

“Why do I wait? Why did Ivan die?” He glared at Hollis. “Fundamental flaws in our system.” He pounded one fist with the other. “Under-bloody-funding. Why do we need so much health care money? It isn't a mystery. First, too many people spend a lifetime overindulging—eating and drinking too much, smoking, taking risks.” He shook his head. “I suppose government campaigns to change how people live may help, but...”

“And private ones. AA, Mothers Against Drunk Driving,” Hollis said.

Curt ignored her. He smashed his right fist down on his left. “The second reason is the important one. The one we can do something about. Children are born who
never
should come into this world.” He narrowed his eyes and jutted his chin forward.
“If
their parents had genetic counselling and
listened,
when doctors told them they carried genes for Tay Sachs, Huntington's, cystic fibrosis, Gaucher's, Asperberger's, and certain mental disorders. I could go on and on. It's a long list. Anyway,
if
they
listened,
those children wouldn't be born. Thousands of
those
people take up countless hospital beds.”

“But not emergency ward beds,” Hollis said.

Curt continued as if he hadn't heard or hadn't chosen to hear. “Stamp Out Hereditary Diseases,
SOHD
, campaigns not only for more genetic testing but also to have those who willingly accept sterilization shoot to the top of adoption lists.”

“Surely if a genetic test is available, people take it?” Hollis said.

“Not enough of them. If governments had aggressively adopted this policy years ago, we'd pay lower taxes and have less crowded hospitals. I'd have had my operation. Ivan might be alive.”

“And Etienne might never have been born,” Manon said quietly.

“Of course he would have,” Curt snapped.

“No, I've suffered from mood swings and depression since my teens. My father did too. I think it's pretty clear he died intentionally. He crashed his car on a nice day. There were no skid marks. According to your scheme, someone with my background wouldn't have been allowed to carry a baby to term and risk passing on mental illness.”

“Bloody nonsense. You may be neurotic, but it's not an illness.”

Hollis didn't want this to escalate.

“Sounds like the Third Reich to me.” She immediately regretted her words. Anything connected to Hitler carried so much baggage, it lost its impact. But since she'd started, she'd finish. “Didn't they use sterilization to rid themselves of those they considered undesirable? Didn't they plan to produce the master race?”

“No, this bloody well is not like Germany. Sterilization would be
voluntary.”
He glared at Hollis. “You'd understand if
you
needed surgery, and
your
son had died because the hospitals were full.”

“I agree
you
shouldn't have to wait, but I can't see what this has to do with Ivan. Emergency wards are just that—places to deal with emergencies. They treated Ivan immediately. They couldn't save him because his injuries were too severe. How would having fewer patients in the hospital have helped?”

Curt lowered his head like a charging rhinoceros. “You and Manon know nothing. And calling them weirdos, Manon, is uncalled for. They are caring, concerned citizens who want a better society. It's our opponents who are weirdos. They're the same fanatics who fight abortion. They use extreme methods. They harass and firebomb clinics and murder doctors.”

Manon shrugged and stepped out of her high-heeled sandals. She picked them up and directed her anger at the shoes rather than her husband. When she swung them hard by their straps, one shoe broke loose and hurtled through the air. The stiletto heel clipped Curt's hand when he reached to stop it.

“Jesus, Manon, you could have killed me. What the hell's the matter with you? You're crazy as a coot.”

Manon winced at his words and stared at his bloody hand. “Sorry,” she whispered and crept to retrieve her sandal.

“Sorry, that's all you can say?” Curt strode towards the house, grabbed the French door's handle and stopped. “Goddamn it, why do we lock the goddamn doors when we're sitting right here? Another one of your
crazy
obsessions.” He scrabbled in his pocket, hauled out his keys, unlocked the door and disappeared inside.

Manon sank into a deck chair beside Hollis. Neither woman spoke.

Curt reappeared with a wadded paper towel pressed against his hand. “I'm not locking the goddamn door.” His voice challenged Manon to argue with him. The phone rang.

“Screw you.” Curt slammed the phone back in its cradle.

“I don't understand why, with all that's going on, you're involved with an organization that attracts hatred.” Hollis, aware she should allow the hostility to dissipate, forged on. She wanted to understand.

“It's not my fault the telephone company can't keep our number private.”

“And I suppose it won't be
your
fault if something terrible happens to me or Etienne,” Manon said over her shoulder. She stomped inside and locked the door.

* * *

The next morning, Hollis rolled out of bed before six. She forced herself to spend quiet moments meditating. As events and tension escalated at the Hartmans', it was even more important for her to adhere to this morning ritual that helped her to keep centred and focused. As it usually did, meditation restored her, and she congratulated herself for keeping to her routine. She emerged from her room to find Etienne sitting on the stairs.

“I set my alarm for six so I could come for a walk with you.”

“Tomas, Ivan and I walked Beau here,” Etienne volunteered when they reached the park a little later.

“I've forgotten—what breed was Beau?”

“A mutt. She belonged to Maman before she married Papa. Maman thought she was part collie and part German shepherd. Papa didn't like Beau.” His tone changed. “He said when you bought a particular breed, you knew what to expect.”

Hollis could almost hear Curt speaking. Etienne had a good ear. Did all children who simultaneously learn two languages as babies have this ability?

“Maman said dogs from the pound, the humane society, were tougher. She said they didn't spend their lives at the vets like purebred dogs.” He sighed. “Ivan thought we should go to the pound and pick one out. He said if the dog was right there,” his nose wrinkled, “it would be a
fait accompli
—that's French—and Maman would let her stay.”

“What would you have called her?”

Etienne grinned. “I told Ivan I'd name her Penny, because a shiny new penny is lucky.” He shrugged. “But if we'd picked one out, that wouldn't have been her name. Ivan got all red and said Penny was a girl's name and we couldn't use it.” His grin returned. “Did you know dogs are purebreds and horses are thoroughbreds?”

Hollis remembered how, as a kid, she'd loved collecting nuggets of knowledge. Actually, she still did. Every morning she flipped to the back page of the first section of the
Globe and
Mail,
where she read “Facts and Arguments”, a compendium of miscellaneous esoteric information.

“Grandmaman gave me a book with hundreds of collectives for birds and animals.” He pointed up into a nearby oak tree where more than a dozen crows cawed and disturbed the peace with raucous noise. “Did you know they're called a ‘murder of crows'? I've memorized the ones in my book. If they aren't there, I make them up.”

“Tell me some. A murder of crows is good.”

“A pride of lions, a herd of cows—those are ordinary ones. Others, like an exaltation of larks, aren't common. Maybe that one isn't well known, because I don't think there are any larks in Canada.”