The Western Light (11 page)

“Do you think it's inspiring, Willa?”

“It's just a picture,” Willa said. She had set up a card table for me on the back verandah overlooking the oil wells. I loved to watch the pump jacks bob up and down, and to hear the creak of the wooden jerker rods that snaked across the meadow to the field house where a giant spider wheel supplied the power to pump the oil out of the ground. The jerker rods creaked, rain or shine, and the noise was so constant that no one heard it; or smelled the stink of crude oil coming from Bear Creek. If a visitor complained, Big Louie said, “I can't smell anything but money.”

After I finished Willa's pork chops and scalloped potatoes, Willa sent me upstairs to bed. I crept into the sewing room to pay my respects to the dressmaker dummy, which had been cast in papier maché from Big Louie's body when she was forty-five. It was standing next to Big Louie's Vibro Slim machine with its leather belt that fit around your waist and shook you senseless. The dummy's stout contours asserted Big Louie's voluptuous proportions, but its headless torso, not to mention its missing legs, hinted that it had suffered a tragic dismembering. Looking at the huge, shiny breasts and rounded stomach, I imagined the dummy flying on invisible legs through the rooms of the Great House before stopping to open my door and whisper:
Big Louie is the ruler here. If you don't do what she says, she will banish you from her world of pleasure.

I wished good night to the dummy and, trying to contain my excitement, I hurried to my bedroom where I removed the grille from a heating vent in the floor. The chatter of the adults drifted up to me. “Oh, go on with you, Willie.” Big Louie laughed. “Get me another goddamn gin!” The tinkle of someone playing the piano floated upwards, too, and the high, silvery timbre of my grandmother's voice lingering on the verse: “Oh, my darling Clementine. You are lost and gone forever, dreadful sorry, Clementine …” Uncle Willie made fake sobbing sounds as if he was part of the melodramatic chorus. My aunt and Big Louie laughed. I couldn't hear Max, my aunt's friend. I went to the window. Outside Maurice was polishing the antique Packard, his shirtsleeves rolled up. He had waited until the cool of the evening to do the hardest work. Overhead, the moon was almost full, and huge oaks by the Great House were throwing spidery shadows across the lawn. The shadows made me think of John, and I wondered if he was somewhere out there in the darkness, heading for the American border. The thought gave me a thrill. To protect him, I whispered my favourite nursery verse: “How many miles to Babylon? Three score and ten. Can I get there by candlelight? Aye, and back again. If your feet are nimble and light, you'll get there by candlelight.” Well, John's feet were nimble all right. Smiling to myself, I went back to the vent. Downstairs, they had stopped singing and my grandmother said: “I hear that Pilkie man escaped again.”

“Yes, he did,” my aunt replied. “And he's headed our way.”

“Oh kids, I hope not,” Big Louie said. “The radio said he's going to Windsor.”

“I read about him tying a guard to a block of ice,” Uncle Willie said. “And threatening to kill him, too.”

“With a kitchen knife,” my aunt replied. “Sib told Sal about it this morning. The local people are terrified.”

“The late edition of one of the Toronto papers has printed a letter from him. He wants a review of his case,” Uncle Willie exclaimed.

“Don't talk nonsense,” my grandmother said.

“Not so fast, Mom. Let me read you his letter.” On the floor below, Uncle Willie cleared his throat: “‘Escaped Killer Pilkie Demands Justice for Mental Patients.' That's the headline. Here's what Pilkie wrote: ‘Dear editor: I am writing your newspaper to ask if a parole board will review my case. I have been in asylums for almost thirteen years after I received two concussions while playing hockey. Today I no longer suffer the effects of the blows that affected my judgment and caused me to harm my wife and child. Cold-blooded criminals get their cases reviewed by a parole board but I have no hope of release. Once a person is sent to an asylum, we stay until we die. Sincerely yours, John Pilkie, former defence man for the Detroit Red Wings.'”

“You mean his injury caused the murder?” Big Louie asked. “That's a good one.”

“Lots of people get concussions and they don't murder their family,” Uncle Willie replied. “But look, mother. You're in the paper too.” He read out an announcement about several prominent Petrolia families bringing out their old cars for my grandmother's celebration of Vidal Oil. Among the cars was the 1929 Packard belonging to the Vidals.

“It says your Packard cost $28,000 when it was ordered from Detroit,” Uncle Willie said.

“I wish they hadn't mentioned how much it cost,” my grandmother said. “I don't want somebody like Pilkie driving off with my Packard.”

Pressing my mouth against the heating vent grille, I shouted: “He won't steal your car. It doesn't run properly.”

“You're right there, Dearie!” Big Louie shouted back, laughing.

“Well, if Pilkie shows up, you can talk him out of it. Will you do that for me?” She didn't wait for me to say yes. “Now go back to bed and close those big ears of yours.”

Their voices faded. A few minutes later, someone came up the stairs. I slipped back into bed and pulled up the covers. The door squeaked open. “Are you still awake, Mary?” my aunt whispered. For a moment, I considered telling her John's knife was blunt. But I knew better. I kept my eyes closed and faked sleep.

17

THERE WAS ANOTHER STORY ABOUT JOHN IN THE MORNING PAPER. It described Dr. Shulman's liberal policies towards the mentally ill in Madoc's Landing and explained how the town council objected to Dr. Shulman removing the bars from the rooms of the harmless patients. On the front page, they'd reprinted an old photograph of Dr. Shulman from
The Chronicle
, which showed Ben's father standing beside a twenty-foot-high pile of steel bars, the ones taken down on his orders. According to the Toronto newspaper, Dr. Shulman claimed that the bars and locks were still on the cells of the killers in Maple Ridge, so there was no reason to blame his policies for John's escape.

The newspaper also ran a picture of John in his Red Wings uniform. He looked young, like a boy I might pass on the street playing road hockey. His hair stood up in an oily pompadour and his big eyes were dark and shiny under his brows. The photo caption read: “The hockey killer once bragged that he will spring himself from any jail that dares to hold him.” I was so startled by the sight of John and Dr. Shulman appearing together on the front page of a Toronto newspaper that I almost didn't notice the story about Able, the rhesus monkey, who died from an infected electrode scientists had placed in his chest. At least Able made it back to terra firma. At least he didn't die alone in space like Laika, the Soviet dog.

I took the newspaper story to Uncle Willie in his private quarters above the old carriage shed. Uncle Willie had on the smoking jacket my great-grandfather wore in his portrait. Willa had taken it in so it would fit him.

“Your highness, I've been expecting you. Willa left some extra breakfast for you.” He waved at a tray stacked with rusty brown pieces of toast and glass jars of creamy-looking butter and marmalade. “Homemade, Mary,” he said. “Try some. Nobody makes jam better than Willa.”

I applied myself wolfishly to the rest of Uncle Willie's breakfast, stuffing down the toast. My uncle climbed out of bed and joined me. Willa had made bran muffins, too, and Uncle Willie smeared one with double helpings of jam and butter and gulped it down.

“There's more about John Pilkie in the morning paper,” I began. “Did you see it?”

“I saw it,” he said. “Mary, let's forget about the hockey killer for a moment. Do you think Little Louie is mad at me for bringing Max yesterday?”

“I don't think so. She was only pretending to be mad, because she didn't know what else to do.”

Uncle Willie threw back his head and laughed like anything. “Is Max your friend, too?”

“Yes. Max and I used to play hooky from school together. Then Max started studying so he could go to university. Not me. I'm hopeless, you know. I can't work under the direction of other people.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Has anyone said you ask too many questions?”

“Yes, lots of times. What were John Pilkie's relatives like? Were they nice?”

“You don't quit, do you, kid? The Pilkies were God-fearing, hardworking people, like most of us old families in southern Ontario. Self-righteous, too, and opinionated. We think we know best. It's a terrible feeling.”

“I suppose it is,” I said.

“But never mind the Pilkies, Mary. I want to show you my new project.” Uncle Willie fished out a typed-up manuscript from a box under his bed. “Here's my film script. I'm sending it with my application to a college in the United States.” He sat on his bed and watched while I read its opening paragraph:

Scene One: Reginald Barrett and Big Louie (Vidal) Barrett on the ocean liner, The Princess Mary:

 

Voice Over: How did a Yankee canal boy named Mac Vidal become as rich as Midas? What role did he play in developing the oilfields of Enniskillen, which supplied ninety per cent of Canada's oil at the turn of the twentieth century? Let us start at the end of the saga, with his descendants, the modern prodigals.

 

Scene One: Two figures walk down the deck of an ocean liner while “Claire de Lune” plays on the soundtrack. The male figure tips his hat to the camera. Now the female figure, wearing an evening gown and long gloves, throws her diamond bracelet into the sea. The man claps and both walk triumphantly towards the camera until they block out the lens. These are the prodigals, the carefree children of the pioneers who spend money like water. From shirtsleeves to shirtsleeves in three generations, as the saying goes.

“Big Louie won't like you saying she spends money like water.”

“The old girl has a sense of humour,” Uncle Willie replied. “That's the best thing about her. Besides, she'll look like royalty when I'm finished.”

I wasn't so sure, although Big Louie didn't need Uncle Willie's movie camera to playact. “Can I ask you something else, Uncle Willie?”

“Well, okay,” he said. “Shoot.”

“Did your friend Max break Little Louie's heart?”

“I bet Mother told you that. But yes, it's a mess all right. He's married to someone else now.”

“Will Max leave his wife for Little Louie?”

“Who knows? Little Louie is no pushover.” Uncle Willie frowned. “It's the damnedest thing. If you tell my sister not to jump off a cliff, she'll do it. She's a real chip off the old block.”

“You mean Old Mac?”

“No, I mean Big Louie. Those two women are a force of nature. You will be one day, too.” When Uncle Willie saw my surprise, he squeezed my hand and we stared out the window at my grandmother's garden, where the morning breeze was making the big, white globes of the mopheads bob up and down beside their kissing cousins, the pink skullcap hydrangeas. What Uncle Willie said made me hopeful, even though I was not yellow-haired and big-boned like the women in my mother's family. I was short and thin and so undeveloped for my age that people thought I was younger than I was. To make matters worse, my hair was the same boring brown shade as Morley's dead mother, Mrs. Phyllis Bradford. I looked like my nickname, Mouse, and there wasn't a thing I could do about it.

WILLA THOUGHT I WAS IN bed asleep, but instead I stood in my pyjamas on the upstairs balcony pretending to be my great-grandfather spying on one of Big Louie's parties. From this vantage point, it was easy to see why Old Mac felt neglected. Like me, he was left out of family celebrations. I was too young, and he was too old. By the time he died, he was coming up to his third year of triple digits.

Across the lawn, the evening sun shimmered hot and low through the oaks, catching the guests in splashes of golden light. Big Louie stood on the front step handing out corsages made of the small onions, radishes, and parsley that Willa and I had put together from instructions in the
Matinee Party Guide
. My grandmother's voice floated up above the noise of her guests laughing about their silly corsages. She was telling them the radishes were specially shipped from Detroit, and her guests pretended to ooh and ah as they enjoyed my grandmother's joke. When the band played “I've Got a Lovely Bunch of Coconuts” my grandmother took Uncle Willie's arm and headed over to the tennis court, where people were dancing. I couldn't help admiring how the sun lit up the dark blue sequins on Big Louie's dress. It also caught on Uncle Willie's wristwatch and the hood ornaments of the cars: a 1922 Chevrolet Coupe and a 1927 Cadillac. The Vidal Packard was parked in a special place by the carriage shed, and the sunshine glowing on its hood and white walled tires showed off Maurice's handiwork. I imagined Queen Elizabeth swanning around in the car with President Eisenhower and Mamie as photographers crowded them, flash bulbs popping.

Behind the old cars rose the oil derrick and field house and still more exhibits from the early days of oil that had been moved to the lawn for my grandmother's party. There was a tall oil wagon with high wooden wheels as well as several giant steam kettles used by my great-grandfather to refine crude oil. Only their spouts could be seen. The rest of the kettles were hidden by the stand of cedar trees near the carriage shed. Then I caught a movement by the cedars. My mouth fell open. John Pilkie was coming round the corner of the carriage shed, wearing his chocolate brown fedora. His face was hidden under the brim of his hat. I couldn't be absolutely sure it was him, but he walked with the same swagger, toes out, shoulders high. He had on tall rubber boots, which looked strange in the heat. He jiggled the handle of the Packard's door, hunching his shoulders as if he didn't want anybody to see what he was doing. The door opened and he leaned across the seat, looking for something. Suddenly, I knew what it was. He was looking for the key so he could drive off with the Packard. I considered yelling for my grandmother but she wasn't anywhere to be seen.
Remember your promise,
Hindrance whispered.
If it's Pilkie, you have to talk him out of stealing her car
.

Without worrying about what Willa would say, I took Big Louie's elevator down to the first floor and tramped as fast as I could through my grandmother's petunia beds. It was still humid and my leg brace felt heavy and hot against my pyjama leg. Soon I was almost at the carriage shed, where the intruder stood brushing lint off his trousers. He glanced up and saw me. Before I could say hello, he disappeared into the cedars.

Unfortunately, the darkness was thickening in the oak woods and I could no longer see the ant holes with the sandy moustache rings around their burrows. Should I get Uncle Willie? But what if the man was John? I took a few more steps and somebody coughed, a hollow wheezing expunging of air. John had coughed the same way in our kitchen on Whitefish Road.

“Is that you, Mr. Pilkie?” I called. “If it's you, I won't tell. Cross my heart and point to heaven.” Overhead, a nighthawk screeched as it landed on a cedar, making the branches quiver. Or was the stranger making the cedar shake? I took a gulp of air and cried, “You have to get away from here as fast as you can! Promise?” The coughing started again. It went on and on and ended in a long, bronchial whistling. I knew what my father would say — “Too many cigarettes.”

Nearby, the oil exhibits looked bigger and creepy in the evening shadows, and the fusty smell of Big Louie's petunias pushed over to me from the garden. Summoning up my nerve, I yelled, “I am truly sorry Sib Beaudry was mean to you but you have to go — now!” Why didn't he answer? Was he mad at me for drawing attention to him? There was a new rustling sound and the cedars started shaking again. Now I understood. John was angry and he was going to strangle me with his bare hands. Putting my weight on my good leg, I humped myself off, listening for the tromp-tromp of his footsteps. “Hurry, Hindrance,” I whispered. “Don't let him catch us.” The rustling sound grew louder. Behind me, a male voice said my name with a question mark behind it. I whirled around. Maurice was smiling down at me.

“John Pilkie is stealing the Packard!” I cried.

Maurice smiled. “Willa's looking for you,” he said.

I narrowed my eyes trying to decide what to do, and Hindrance whispered cunningly:
Mouse Bradford, only you can save the day
. Mollified, I limped over to warn Big Louie's guests.