Grave Deeds

GRAVE DEEDS

Books by Betsy Struthers

Fiction:

Found: A Body.
Toronto: Simon
Sc
Pierre, 1992

Poetry:

Running Out Of Time.
Toronto: Wolsak & Wynn, 1993
Saying So Out Loud
. Oakville: Mosaic, 1988
Censored Letters.
Oakville: Mosaic, 1984

BETSY STRUTHERS

Copyright © 1994 by Betsy Struthers. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Simon & Pierre Publishing Co. Ltd., a subsidiary of Dundurn Press Limited. Permission to photocopy should be requested from the Canadian Reprography Collective.

Editor: Marian M. Wilson
Cover Illustration: Steve Raetsen
Printed and bound in Canada by Metrolitho Inc., Quebec

The writing of this manuscript and the publication of this book were made possible by support from several sources. We would like to acknowledge the generous assistance and ongoing support of
The Canada Council, The Book Publishing Industry Development Program
of the
Department of Canadian Heritage, The Ontario Arts Council,
and
The Ontario Publishing Centre
of the
Ministry of Culture, Tourism and Recreation.

Kirk Howard, President; Marian M. Wilson, Publisher

Simon
&
Pierre Publishing Co. Ltd.,
a subsidiary of Dundurn Press

1 2 3 4 5 • 9 8 7 6 5

Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data

Struthers, Betsy, 1951-
  Grave deeds

ISBN 0-88924-257-7

I. Title.

PS8587.T298G7 1993 C813'.54 C93-095037-2
PR9199.3.S77G7 1994

Order from Simon & Pierre Publishing Co. Ltd., care of

For their advice and assistance, I thank Constable Lynne Buehler, Peterborough Community Police Service; Kenneth Doherty, Manager, Peterborough Centennial Museum and Archives; and Dr. Susan Jamieson, Department of Anthropology, Trent University. Any errors are, of course, my own.

And as always, I thank Jim Struthers, my first best reader.

for my parents, L.H. Porter and Susanne E. Porter,
with love

The moment I turned the corner, I saw the crowd. About twenty people huddled together on the sidewalk halfway down the block, mostly women holding small children by the hand. In spite of the breeze blowing up from the lake, chilling the brightness of the spring sun, only a few wore jackets over casual sweatshirts and jeans. Their chatter competed with the squabble of starlings nesting among the new leaves of the maples that lined the street. A couple of elderly men stood in the centre of the road, one of them clutching the leash of a small fat terrier. Its high-pitched yaps were echoed by the excited barking of a Doberman whose head popped up periodically, as it threw itself against the tall wooden fence next door. Two boys on bicycles sped down the hill and screeched to a stop by the women. Voices rose and fingers pointed. A baby cried.

I stopped to consult the letterhead printed at the top of the thick creamy paper on which my aunt had sent me an invitation to visit. I hadn't known until she wrote that I had an aunt. My father left when I was still a baby; my mother died shortly after my marriage. I never met his relatives and hers were far away in England. As for my husband's family, well, you know how in-laws are. My lack of relations is only one of the things Will's mother holds against me. One of the smaller things at that.

The address matched the house; the letter didn't. Written in beautiful flowing script, the formal note of introduction and
invitation induced those fantasies so familiar to my lonely childhood: that I had been exchanged in the hospital at birth and that my real family were rich and loving and looking for me. Not that I didn't love my mother, but she worked long hours as a lawyer's secretary. I spent many dark winter afternoons sitting in the front windowseat of our apartment waiting for her to come home, and imagining a different life in a house full of siblings and grandparents.

This house was in a neighbourhood developed at the beginning of the century as a summer residence for the bourgeois of the city, those who wanted and could afford to escape the smell and congestion of downtown in exchange for the long white beaches at the end of a thirty-minute streetcar ride. It dated from that era: a frame cottage with gabled windows overlooking the roof of a verandah that wrapped around three of its sides. Once it had been painted white with dark green trim. What could be seen through the mass of ivy and overgrown bushes that pressed against the walls was gray weathered wood and boarded windows.

I joined the group of watchers, choosing to stand beside a woman my age who stood a little apart from the others, her feet still on the brick path that led to her own front door. She wore a faded pink track suit and new white running shoes; her graying hair was cut short. She didn't join in the excited speculation of her neighbours, but stared fiercely across at my aunt's house, her arms crossed tightly over her breasts, her eyes squinting against the sunlight or against tears — it was hard to tell which.

A hearse backed up the drive, crowding a police car onto a lawn of tall grass and dandelions. A white sedan was pulled up on the sidewalk. Red and white rooftop lights flickered in the brilliant spring sun. The crackle of radio static and the urgent repetition of a coded call echoed beneath the twittering of robins and the soothing coo of pigeons that strutted across the roof ridge between chimneys, craning their necks to see if anyone down below was about to throw them food. No one was.

A uniformed policeman stood on the verandah at the top of a flight of four steps. Two men in suits conferred on the threshold. They moved aside as the door swung open. For a moment, the attendant's back hid the gurney he was manoeuvring
down the stairs.

A quiet groan rose when the body, wrapped in a blanket, came into view. The woman next to me sighed heavily and muttered half aloud, “So. That's that.”

“Excuse me,” I said. “What's happened here?”

My voice startled her. Her hands dropped to her sides, forming fists. She glared at me and, without answering, turned her back. I watched her stride into her house and winced at the crash of the slammed door.

A small gnarled and liver-spotted hand patted my own. “Don't worry about her none,” an old man said. He tugged at the terrier's leash. “You keep away from them flowers,” he commanded. And turning to me he added, “She can't stand dogs or cats, or kids for that matter. She hated the old lady,” he nodded toward the hearse as it made its quiet retreat down the street under the arching maples. “Tried to get the city to make her clean up her yard, complained that the seeds blew across into her garden, messed up her pretty arrangements. And the number of times she had the Humane Society here looking out for them cats!” His cackle degenerated into a shaky cough. After some fumbling, he found a shred of tissue which he used for both his nose and his eyes. “'Scuse me,” he said. “But I was kind of fond of the old witch.”

“Who?”

“Mother Baker.” He nodded at the little house across the street. “That's what we all called her, anyways. Not to her face, mind. She used to tell fortunes in the old days, reading tea leaves. Didn't always hear what you wanted neither, but she was right more times than not. Old as the devil she was. Older'n me, anyways, and I won't see seventy again. Guess how old I am, young lady. Go ahead — guess.”

“I don't know. Seventy-two?”

That got him laughing again. “Eighty,” he hooted. “Eighty years old and lived here all my life. Born in that house right there” — he pointed to an immaculate Victorian house on the corner, complete with tower and gingerbread fretwork — “and I'm going to die there, too. Got my granddaughter living with me now. Her and her kids. She needs a place to live and I need the company. Whereabouts do you live, eh? Don't recall seeing you round about, and I know everybody on this street.”

Before I could answer him, another stir swept through the crowd as a small van came up to the curb. A policeman hurried over to talk to the driver. The back opened and a young woman climbed down, carrying two pet carriers and a long pole with a loop of rope at its end.

“They're going to catch the cats,” the old man said. “I gotta watch this.”

He tugged his dog back across the street and took up a station under one of the big maples that lined the sidewalk. I followed.

The police car pulled out of the drive and passed us. Its driver was intent on weaving a safe path through the crowd; her passenger was scribbling in a notebook with one hand while talking into a radio mike he held in the other. On the street, a uniformed officer was talking to various onlookers, taking notes as they answered his questions. The boys rode their bikes back and forth, craning their necks to peer inside the house through the open door.

An unholy screech erupted from inside. One of the men I'd noticed earlier stumbled out on to the porch, blood dripping from a hand he held so that it wouldn't stain his pale linen suit. “Damned cats,” he snarled. “I hate cats.”

“Take it easy, Joe.” The second, younger man joined him. He was trying not to smile, but I could see that he privately enjoyed the other's distress. “It's just a little scratch.”

“Did you see the one that bit me? Big as a lion it was.”

“Scared of a little pussy, are you?”

“I didn't see you trying to catch it.” Joe pulled a starched handkerchief from his vest pocket and wrapped it around his palm. “Probably has rabies,” he grumbled. “I'll have to get those shots. Have you got any idea how bad those shots are? I heard they give you about forty of them, right in the belly. I hate needles.”

“You think Workmen's Compensation will cover this? Cat scratch in the line of duty?” the other man ribbed him.

Joe muttered another curse, turning his back on his partner to survey the street. I didn't look away quickly enough. We stared at each other for a long moment. Without dropping his eyes, Joe whispered something to the younger man. He too looked at me. I decided it was time to leave.

The cat catchers came out, staggering with the weight of two boxes each, boxes that snarled and shook as the cats inside fought to escape. They slid them into the van and brought out four more empty cases. The woman sighed heavily before turning back to the house.

“They'll be bringing them out for hours.” My old friend was back beside me again. He was carrying the little dog, which had become bored with all the action and fallen asleep.

“She had a lot of cats?”

“You bet. It was all the grocery ever delivered, cat food and milk.”

“What about her? What did she eat?”

“Regular food, I guess. She walked down to the corner every other day of the week, 'cept Sunday, rain or shine, pulling that little bundle buggy of hers. It was company for her, going to the store.”

“But the cat food got delivered?”

“Bags of it, yeah.” He nodded. “Every stray for miles around knew to come to Mother Baker's come October. Most of 'em had kittens and most of the little ones stayed. They just burst out of that house in the evening. Mrs. Robinson,” and he nodded toward the home of the first woman I'd approached, “she used to complain all the time. But the old lady was clever. She had them all named and had the vet come and give them their shots. She even had the papers to prove it. Fifty cats she had. I know — the vet told me when she came to see Winny here, the last time Winny ate something he shouldn't.” He rubbed his cheek against the dog's head. Its tail thumped against his chest, but its eyes stayed closed. “Garbage mouths, dogs are! You have to love them, though. Not like cats. Can't say I like them either, but they were company to the old woman. Only family she had, I'd say. Look,” and he nodded to the other house. “Here she comes.”