I IMAGINED DR. SHULMAN'S ROUND, kind eyes as he tried to comfort John, and John bowing his head while he took in the bad news.
“What are we to going do?” I asked my aunt.
“You know it's too late, Mouse. We can't do nothing, ” Ben said. “We can't do anything.”
Ben threw me a look. He turned to Little Louie. “Can you write about it in the newspaper?”
“They let me go.” Tears slid down Little Louie's cheeks.
I patted my aunt's shoulder and told her everything was going to be fine.
PART SIX
THE AGE OF ACHING
47
NOW IT'S TIME FOR ME TO GET TO THE PART OF MY STORY WHERE I learn what I needed to learn all along: most of the truths we seek lie in the extremes and although we have to travel to that rugged place to feel them in our bones, the extremes are no place to live. Three weeks and twelve hours after John walked out of the arena, leaving Morley and the Rats stranded, I inform Hindrance that I don't want to talk with her anymore. I also give Ben my book of true facts. Then I write a three-page letter to Big Louie explaining that I will soon be a teenager so I'm changing my name to M.B. Bradford. My grandmother phones me immediately.
“Congratulations, Mouse. You're about to reach the age of aching,” Big Louie says. “Let's hope your aching doesn't last very long.”
I don't know what to say to such a strange birthday wish, so I tell my grandmother how much I like the two-hundredand-fifty-page history of oil in North America that she sent up, especially the chapter on my great-grandfather titled,
Mac Vidal, Oil Baron of Canada West
. She tells me that next year I will be going to a girls' boarding school in Toronto. It's time I left home and saw the world beyond Madoc's Landing.
My grandmother gave me this startling news three weeks and three days after John walked out into the blizzard, although my family doesn't talk about John anymore. Not Little Louie or my father, and especially not Sal. Nobody wants to hear her say she was right about him. Maybe Sal doesn't want to hear herself saying it either.
A few days later, Little Louie and I go with Morley on his Sunday calls. Ordinarily, my aunt would stay at home to work on a newspaper story. And, ordinarily, I would play my old guessing game in which I close my eyes and try to guess where my father's car is on the road. I would know by the racket under the car's wheels that we were crossing the wooden bridge outside town and the engine's throaty hum would mean we were climbing up the headland overlooking Madoc's Landing.
Now I sit watching the snow-covered trees and meadows flash by with new appraising eyes. One day soon, I'll be leaving Madoc's Landing. And then, I won't go on boring drives in the countryside, or live in a place where it snows half the year. In the fall, Big Louie is sending me away and I'll never go through another icebox winter again.
From the backseat of our car, I can see the frozen bay. I can also see the road across it that the shore people have marked with dead Christmas trees. After freeze up, everybody takes their cars on the ice, or they use scoots, the flat-bottomed boats with steel runners that can sail on both ice and water. Occasionally, people go by snowmobile, a new invention that looks like a bobsled on skis. No matter how you travel, the Christmas tree road stops you from losing your bearings and, if the cold weather holds, you can safely travel across the ice until early April.
My father pulls into the farmhouse lane. After he tramps through the snow to the farmhouse, I get out of the car to look for signs of spring. There are one or two: the March sun is hot on my face and I'm sweating inside my snowsuit. Dirty icicles drip from the wooden trim on the farmhouse gables. The snowbanks near the barn are burned with deep, yellow pee-holes left by the farm dogs. I turn my eyes north, hoping for a telltale line of blue on the horizon. But the Bay is a solid sea of white all the way to the horizon. Near Towanda Lodge, where Old Man Beaudry lives, there are still icebergs by the shore. So it looks like Sib can keep on driving his snowmobile over the ice without worrying.
Disappointed, I climb back in the car. My aunt doesn't glance up. She didn't get out to look at the view the way she did in the summer when she was seeking a better understanding of things. Instead, she sits in the front seat, smoking her head off and frowning. For her, the Bay is something to avoid; while for me the Bay is a giant clock that measures the way time slips through our lives. Today the clock says spring is just a piece of nonsense dreamed up to keep us going.
MORLEY'S NEXT CALL IS TOWANDA Lodge. Two cottages away, the car's engine conks out and we have to walk down the old lumber road to the lodge. I'm soon thirsty and hot inside my snowsuit, because it's hard going. The temperature is above freezing, and the thick, mushy snow is pierced with small holes where water droplets have fallen from the trees.
Outside the lodge, I spot fresh boot prints in the melting snow. “I guess Old Man Beaudry's had visitors,” I exclaim. Morley nods, and my aunt lights up a Sweet Cap. The quick, nervous way she smokes suggests she's keyed up about something. “Louisa?” Morley says. She hurries after him while I hang back to examine the tracks. Some of them go down the small incline that leads to the storage space under the lodge. It occurs to me that the basement would be a good place for somebody to hide. What if John's there? If he was, I can tell him I know about his wife throwing the match.
There's a knock at a window. Behind the glass, my father is signalling for me to come inside. I do as I'm told. Away from the March sunshine, the lodge feels dank and chilly, although its thick walls should keep out the cold. It was built when the land was logged for white pine, but maybe Old Man Beaudry is too sick to stoke the woodstove. In the kitchen, my father shows us how to work the hand pump and then he disappears down the hall. Through the pine board walls we can hear Old Man Beaudry complaining about his stomach. It sounds like my father is going to be here a while.
My aunt pumps us cups of water. “Mary, I want to go outside and look around,” she says, tossing her drink down. “You stay here and rest.”
“I don't want to sit here by myself.”
“You won't be alone. Your father's down the hall.” She tips her head towards the sound of voices coming through the wall. Unexpectedly, the lodge falls silent except for the noise of a door banging outside in the wind.
“Can I come too? This old place gives me the creeps.”
“No. Not this time.”
I freeze. Somewhere in the building, there's the low, hollow sound that makes me think of a rubber plunger going into a human chest. The noise repeats itself.
“John's here! I heard him cough.”
“Don't be silly,” my aunt says. “He's probably miles away from here by now.”
“It's him. I know it is. And I'm going to find him.” I hobble off and she lets out an exasperated sigh and follows me down the hall.
OUTSIDE, THE AFTERNOON SHADOWS ARE deepening to a dark powder blue, as if somebody has been painting the sky on the half-melted snow. It's a trick of winter light at this time of year. At first, I can't see well in the refracted glare, but I find the tracks again. Little Louie and I follow them down to the storage space under the lodge. The boot prints are the size of a man's foot. “What if they belong to John?” I ask, imagining the pleasure in his dark, pop-out eyes when he sees us. Little Louie purses her lips and shakes her head. “But I heard his cough,” I insist.
The footprints lead to a door in a high, latticework wall. The hinge squeaks when we step into the basement, which smells of rotting canvas and sawdust. Rows of overturned sailboats have been laid across wooden horses, and nearby, water trickles from a bust pipe. Then, somewhere in the gloom, a man coughs again. This time Little Louie hears it too. “Be careful,” she hisses. I'm too revved up to listen. The noise is coming from behind a plywood partition. I hobble over, my eyes adjusting to the dark, and peek in the door. Inside a narrow room, a man with wild black hair and a beard sits smoking on a cot. When he sees me, he glares as if I'm part of the world that wishes him harm. “Mary?” He jumps up, a muscle in his cheek twitching. “What in tarnation?”
“Mary heard you coughing.” My aunt comes up from behind and puts her hands on my shoulders. Why isn't she surprised? Or is Little Louie trying to stay calm for my sake? A small, wet smile spreads across his face. “By golly, you two are a sight for sore eyes.” He butts out his cigarette, his eyes burning with an emotion I don't understand.
“Are you going away? Please tell me! Where will you go?”
“Hush, Mary,” Little Louie says. “Let me talk to John for a minute, will you?”
He nods in the direction of the door. “We'll just be a minute. Okay, Annabel Lee. You stand guard, eh?”
“It's my birthday tomorrow!”
His smile widens. “Well now, many happy returns! Can you be a nice girl and keep watch for us?”
Reluctantly, I do what he says. I don't understand why he has to talk to her alone. I'm his special friend, I tell myself while I keep my eye on what's going on outside the latticework door.
THE ROAR OF AN ENGINE shreds the air. John and Little Louie hurry over. “Don't tell on me, okay, Mary?” he whispers. “Specially not your little pal, eh?” I can feel myself tremble as I nod yes. “When will I see you again?” I whisper. He puts a finger to his lips and pushes me towards the door. “Get going now.” His hand falls away. When I turn to look, he's disappeared into the shadows. I trudge outside with Little Louie. On the road, Sib's snowmobile is speeding towards Towanda Lodge.
“Saw Doc Bradford's car.” Sib stops his machine and calls. “Thought I'd come by and check.”
“We've had some trouble with the engine,” Little Louie yells back.
“Want me to take a look at it?” Sib asks.
“Would you?” Little Louie asks. A door bangs overhead, and Morley rushes outside. He must have heard the noise of the Ski-Doo from inside the lodge. “Sib, can you take us back on that thing?”
I consider telling Morley about John, but everything happens too fast, and I promised to keep my mouth shut. Sib jumps off his machine and runs over.
Little Louie climbs onto the front seat of the snowmobile. Morley and I get in its large caboose. My father grips my shoulders with both hands so I won't fall out. After seeing John, my father's presence confuses me.
48
SAL IS IN THE KITCHEN BAKING ME AN ANGEL FOOD CAKE. SHE stops when she sees me enter, covered in snow. Using a broom, she brushes it off my galoshes and helps me out of my soaking wet snowsuit. A snowball fight with the Bug House boys has ruined the home perm I got for my birthday. Sal gently tugs a bedraggled clump of my hair. “I guess those bad boys fixed your Toni. Shame on them, eh?” The warmth in her voice takes me by surprise. Before I can stop it, the urge to confess overpowers me. “I saw him yesterday, Sal.” Sal studies me. “Saw who, Lady Jane?”
“He was hiding under Towanda Lodge.”
“Is that so? You saw a man there?” She waits while I nod. “What did he look like then?”
Should I tell Sal about John when I promised I wouldn't? I've never told on him before, and it comes to me that my friendship with John has been full of secrets from the start. First, there were our pen pal letters, and after that, weeks of me learning to skate for him and finally, our visit with him in the hospital infirmary. And there's something else. If I tell, I'll get myself and Little Louie in trouble because she's keeping his secret too. But it will be worse for him because he'll be stuck behind bars for the rest of his life. He'll never be released, not after defying Morley and Dr. Shulman. In that respect, he's as good as dead.
“I couldn't see very well. But he was ⦠around John's age.”
Sal's eyes hold mine. “Did you get a real good look at his face?”
I drop my eyes. “I think so.”
“Well, then. Don't go scaring me like that. Remember Petrolia, eh? You thought you saw him stealing your granny's car. Plenty of drifters stay at the lodge to help Old Man Beaudry with his chores. You must have seen one of them bums.”
Suddenly, I'm too giddy for words. When she notices me smiling, Sal sucks her teeth. “For a minute there, you had me fooled.” Turning her back, she starts to work on my birthday cake again, whipping up the icing, using margarine instead of butter.
WHEN MORLEY FINISHES HIS SECOND helping of my angel food cake, he gets up to leave. Outside, another snowstorm has blown in.
“Are you going out on a night like this, Morley?” Little Louie points at the dining room window where white powder, like thick sprays of Sal's icing sugar, sticks to the pane.
“It's Cap Lefroy. He won't last the week.” Morley picks up his doctor's bag, cuffing my cheek. “We had a nice birthday tonight, didn't we Mary?”
Morley waits while I compose myself. I feel a horrible weightless sensation, as if I'm circling earth in a capsule like Laika, the Russian dog who was shot into space with no hope of coming home. When my answer doesn't come, Morley pulls on his coat and walks out. I watch him go over to the Oldsmobile, the snow coating his shoulders like fluffy dandruff. Per usual, he's scraping off the windshield, inside and out. When he notices me at the window, he waves. I don't wave back. After I can no longer see his car on Whitefish Road, my aunt says in a low, serious voice: “Alice used to find it hard too.”
Puzzled, I fix my eyes on her face.
“It broke your mother's heart the way he put his patients first. Didn't you know that?”
“No.”
“Well, it's true. She died angry.” Before she can say any more, I hump myself out of the dining room, the angel cake thick as sand on my tongue. Little Louie rushes after me. “Listen. It's not true what I said, Mary. Your mother didn't die angry. She never complained. It was me who was mad. I thought your father should have paid more attention to her.”
“Are you telling the truth?” I ask.
“Of course, I'm telling you the truth. I wouldn't lie to you.” When she says the word “lie,” her face changes. I don't think anything of it. I throw myself against her chest, sobbing. And I am hers, as if she is my mother, and not my mother's sister who chews gum and leaves her room in a mess.