Bishop's Road (7 page)

The others are skeptical but Ginny Mustard smiles. She likes the singing and the creaking of the cradle and feels much better now that the others know her secret. It's not that it weighed her down, but it did get in the way now and then.

Across the road he takes his place under the aspen. Listens to it whisper above him, a greasy frown on his mouth as the fog moves in from the harbour. Up Water Street. Beaton's Row. Caine's Street. Settles thick and gray in his eyes until the house disappears and, nothing to see, he limps back to the river.

In the morning, even before Ginny Mustard begins to prepare breakfast, they gather again in the sitting room, silently, as though the slightest sound will wake whatever else might be sleeping in this crypt of a house. Mrs. Miflin is still dead to the world and Eve's first whisper convinces them to keep her ignorant of the situation. “She's had a rough go of it, poor thing, and there's plenty of time when she's feeling better to let her know what's going on.”

“Poor thing, my ass,” hisses Ruth. “She probably knows all about it. It's her house. You think she doesn't know what's in the bloody attic? She probably put it there. I'd never have taken her for a killer, though. She doesn't seem the type.”

“Fat lot you know about killers, Ruth.” This from Judy, who hasn't had much practice whispering and they all jump slightly when she opens her mouth. “You think they run around drooling and knives hanging out of their pockets. Well let me tell you, some of the nicest looking people in the world are bad to the bone. Take my friend Geoff. He'd do in his granny for a dime of hash if he could get away with it. Anyway -1 think he did because one day when I went over there was a hearse taking her away and she was okay before that. Just kind of old is all.”

Ginny Mustard doesn't like where this conversation is going. She concentrates especially hard to keep up. “Do we have to give it back? The baby? Can we keep it? Judy got to keep the kittens.”

“And who the hell would we give it to?” asks Ruth. “Put an ad in the paper and ask if anyone is missing an old dead baby? Check your graves and give us a call? For God's sake, Ginny Mustard, you don't have the sense of a turnip.”

“Well, I'm at a loss,” says Eve.

From Mrs. Miflin's room comes a weak plea. She needs to get to the bathroom, most likely, and Judy leaps to her duty.

Patricia Hartman waits for her plane to board, purse on her lap, ticket in hand. Since the funeral she has debated the wisdom of going and still ponders her decision. Her mother would have disapproved. They had been over it several times in the last two years, each conversation ending with her mother's insistence that in everyone's interest the past was better left alone. Let the lawyers handle it. Her mother died unaware that Patricia had been watching. Never saw the letters written. Never heard the phone calls. Patricia Hartman is not the kind of woman to let go willingly,
no matter how calmly she might appear to do so. Her mother never knew that about her. The announcer calls her flight. She leaves her seat and walks tall to the gate.

While Judy attends Mrs. Miflin and Ginny Mustard waits with the kittens for a breakfast recipe, Ruth tells Maggie to come with her to the corner store and help her carry back a load of beer. No one has ever brought alcohol into Mrs. Miflin's house. That would be ungodly. But, as Ruth reasons, what the old doll doesn't know won't hurt her. If they can protect her highness from bones in the attic, it shouldn't be too damned difficult to keep a few brews tucked away in back of the fridge.

Shocked by her own willingness to leave the house, but more amazed by Ruth's audacity, Maggie pulls her shoes on and slowly, slowly goes down the front walk with Ruth to break the rules. It's normally a three minute walk but it takes a good ten with Maggie having to step aside whenever anyone comes by, a statue until they pass, with her head down and her shoebox clutched tight against her chest. But she made it. She made it. Spent ten minutes in the world. Didn't fall down. Wasn't struck dead. Nobody hurt her. Only when she hears a transport truck does she realize the extent of her folly, but briefly. Ruth sees the panic and stays close enough to touch if Maggie feels the need.

Breakfast is late. Judy has been waylaid by Mrs. Miflin first and then Eve who thinks it's time to dig another bed in the garden and wants help. She will plant peas and lettuce, just a few of each so no one will get sick of them. Maybe a pumpkin. Tomatoes. There is so much marvelous space crying out for something more than grass. So Ginny Mustard goes ahead without Judy's assistance. Throws eggs and leftovers together with a
bit of this and a bit of that green stuff. Cooks it up in the big cast iron pan and pours a bowl of corn flakes for Mrs. Miflin, all the while humming along to the song from the attic.

Maggie can't eat, though she sits through the meal. She has had more excitement than she can recall and is trembling all over with it. Afterwards Eve has a rough time trimming her hair with the constant squirming.

Eve says there is nothing to be done about the bones, they should wait to tell Mrs. Miflin, are they all agreed? Ruth says she doesn't give a damn as long as she can have a beer now and again. Ginny Mustard is pleased they can keep the baby. They take Maggie's movement for affirmation and Judy grumbles, but what the hell. Better than having cops asking questions all over the place with their big old boots on and just her luck they'd think she did it anyway.

Ginny Mustard wants to clean the attic now. It's too dusty for a little baby and before anyone can think of a good reason not to, she's off with a mop and a bucket of water. Scrub brush. No one else will go with her so she puts a couple of kittens in her pocket for company. Quietly past Mrs. Miflin's door, up the stairs.

“That girl is a loon if ever there was one,” says Ruth. “And what's with her and the cooking? Does anyone else want a beer?” She goes to the kitchen. Finds one of the kittens has climbed into the fridge. Freezes in mid-reach. It looks dead. It looks so little, tiny paws tucked under its belly. She calls for someone to come but her words have no sound. Slowly puts her hand on the baby cat. The small head moves and the mouth opens to squeak. Grabbing a beer she carries the kitten to Maggie and dumps it in her lap on the way to her room.

Patricia Hartman settles herself comfortable in the back seat of a taxi, gives her driver the address of Mrs. Miflin's house, reads it from the slip of paper she holds in her long pink fingers. Deciding that the woman with the best luggage he has ever seen - and he's seen plenty - is probably good for a few dollars more than flat rate, Billy Ralph flips on the meter and takes the scenic route into town. From the airport he turns left and heads through Torbay, Flatrock and all the way into Pouch Cove telling stories and reciting history until his passenger asks him to please shut up she's not interested. He turns around and heads back to the city. If she notices that he has taken her 30 miles in the wrong direction, she doesn't say. He makes a quick run around Quidi Vidi Lake and through The Battery before stopping on Bishop's Road. That'll teach the bitch. Patricia takes off her sunglasses and stares him in the eye before paying the fare. No tip.

Mrs. Miflin asks Eve why none of her friends have come to visit. Why Mrs. Hennessey hasn't called. “And they call them-selves Christians. There's not one of them cares if I'm dead or living.” Eve doesn't have an answer but says she'll be happy to invite them over if Mrs. Miflin will tell her their phone numbers. She doesn't point out that she wasn't aware of any friends, never having seen one around. For all Mrs. Miflin's talk about the people in the neighbourhood, most of her conversations with them seem to be in passing, on her way to the market or Mass. And it is rare to hear her speak well of them, confining her reports to the sad state of the clothes on their lines or the godawful colors they choose to paint their homes. With no phone numbers forthcoming, Eve tucks a blanket round Mrs. Miflin and leaves her to her misery.

Judy has had enough of hard labour for one day. Lately
she's been eyeing the ancient swings in the schoolyard. The heavy ropes are frayed but they have thick wooden seats, not like the ones in the park made of plastic that cuts into the sides of your ass when you sit on them. They were earmarked for replacement years ago but the process has been slowed by disinterest and lack of funds. It was simple enough to tell the students and parents that anyone who used them would surely kill themselves. The principal did concede to posting a plexiglass warning sign, though some of the older kids have long since written dirty words all over it in permanent ink and it will probably be removed if anyone notices.

The only way to the swings when the big gates are locked is through a chain link fence. Fortunately there are some good-sized holes in it, plenty of room if you're at all flexible. Judy nags until she finds someone to go with her. She's no fool and if a swing breaks while she's as high off the ground as she plans to be, she wants an extra body around to call an ambulance. So Maggie, nicknamed “good old Maggs” since her trip to the beer store, is enlisted. Puts her shoes on yet again and slowly makes her way to the fence, gets through without much effort, box in one hand, skirt dragging behind.