Dance For The Devil (37 page)

Yet, as Gillian drifted off to sleep, her brain twisted and jumped to insane imaginings. Two things in particular came to mind. Lingering memories of a time, long ago, when her grasp on reality really had begun to fade, when her world went crazy and she did too. In her last cognisant thought, Gillian realized that Casper hadn’t come back. Whatever was happening, he sensed it too.

**

James D’Anderville III, sole heir to the D’Anderville furniture fortune, direct descendant of Louis Riel, and twice voted as one of Chatelaine magazine’s ten most eligible bachelors, staggered from his dark room and though the front door, and lit a joint. The cool night air washed over him like a baptismal promise.

“Goddamnit,” he muttered, squinting through blurry eyes at the midnight sky. He’d lost the day. Again.

James took a leak off the front patio, then – not bothering to zip his fly – sauntered into the kitchen searching for something to eat. He had a serious case of the munchies, the kind you get from smoking a half-dozen prime Columbian reefers. The pickings were slim; must’ve forgotten to call in the shopping again. Nothing but a six pack, expired milk, jar of olives and some really old donuts. He made a mental note to Email an immediate grocery order while cautiously sniffing the milk. A little off – but nothing his stomach couldn’t handle.

Taking the largest mixing bowl he could find, he dumped in a carton of Kellogg’s Corn Flakes, sloshed on the milk, the settled in front of the tube. The comforting image of CBC’s
Peter Mansbridge
filled the room.

“Aw, fuck,” James muttered after a few minutes. He’d been conked out for three days. Shit, he hated when that happened. He was gonna have to cut down on the drugs or his entire life would be spent on the darkroom floor.

He caught his reflection in the television glass but he didn’t look too hard. He looked bad and he knew it. His dirty-blonde hair, scraggly at the best of times, looked particularly hideous. James had a personal vendetta happening with it: ever since his hair began making its traitorous and frantic retreat at the tender age of eighteen, James had ignored it. He refused to follow his father’s pathetic and ridiculous footsteps to halt the male pattern baldness which beleaguered the D’Anderville males. What you can’t change you might as well forget, and if meant going chrome-domed, then so be it. It had been a while since he’d washed it, and even longer since cutting, so the straggle ran down the back of his neck and lay limply against his shoulders. Plenty long enough for a pony tail, had it been his aim, which it wasn’t. He made a mental note to get it buzzed off next time he was in the city. Or maybe he’d take the razor to it himself. Certainly wouldn’t be the first time, and strangely, the chicks seemed to like it.

His skin was dull and pale. Not enough sunshine, not enough exercise. His features, although patricianly handsome, were lackluster. Vivid blue eyes, which could scrutinize with unnerving intensity when something piqued him, stared disinterestedly back at him. “Yeah, I know,” he muttered, munching the cereal, “pathetic.” He could almost hear his mother’s voice layered over the announcer’s: “
My son: brilliant, talented, classic underachiever... loser.”
At least James was honest about it, not like the evil biddies she used to hang with in Palm Springs. Thank Christ the old bat was dead. Had she not beaten him to the final finish line, another stuffy sanctimonious visit with that dried up lot of raisins would have put him, with certainty, six feet under.

James yawned. Same old crap on the news. Bombings in Syria, famine in Niger, Vancouver Canucks lost at hockey. He caught the tail end of the Dow Jones, mildly pleased to see several of his stocks were up but didn’t bother to do the mental calculations. James D’Anderville III would never need to worry about his net worth – there was just too damn much of it to lose, no matter how hard he tried. The news blipped off on a positive note, and James flicked off the huge sixty inch screen, bored to the inner core of his being.

That was the problem with living on Cedar Island. Nothing ever happened.

**

The problem with Cedar Island,
Raina Covingtree decided,
was that it’s too small to make a decent living.
Population 238, separated from the surrounding countryside by a wide band of river which parted grudgingly to encompass the tear drop shaped island, Cedar Island was the kind of town touted in country magazines as the idyllic lifestyle, as long as one didn’t have to drive twenty-odd kilometres to the nearest town every time you needed jug of milk, and seventy-five into a decent sized city if you needed anything else.

She had to admit, though, that it was lovely here, even in the darkness. Crossing the big orange metal bridge which connected Cedar Island to the rest of the province, she strained futilely to see the muddy waters of the raging Fraser River. The river, she mused, could be construed as a metaphor: washing away the outside sins and leaving the purity and pristine beauty of Cedar Island intact. It was so untouched here, a safe haven where residents never locked their doors and children played outside without fear.

I’ve lived here my entire life,
Raina thought. Seeing the same houses, the same people, taking the same route through the tidy streets to her own driveway.
One day, I’ll die here, without ever living anywhere else.
Instead of rankling, the thought was oddly comforting. At one time, for a brief while, it had become suffocating. Straight out of school, she’d yearned for something more, came to despise the very elements she now adored. But fate stepped in, with Mama getting ill, cutting off all avenues of escape. No longer harboring any visions of moving to the city, the tree-lined roads of Cedar Island welcomed her like a safety net.

Raina pulled the Cadillac into the driveway, surprised to see Mama’s window lit up.
She shouldn’t be awake at this hour. What on earth was Claudia thinking?
Raina wearily grabbed her Mary Kay cosmetic kit from the passenger seat and trudged up the front walk, preparing to do battle. Taking care of Mama was a full-time job.

Claudia was nowhere to be found. Raina smoothed her carefully coiffed hair and pursed her lips with resignation. Not the first time
that
happened – good help was getting harder and harder to find. Especially as Mama grew more difficult. But still... to leave Mama unattended in the middle of the night was absolutely criminal. It was tantamount to leaving a child.

Mama was sitting by the window in her rocking chair, afghan folded neatly on her lap, hands knitted together, staring. “Poor dear,” Raina whispered, kissing the old woman’s head. “How long have you been sitting here?”

Mama swung her steely gaze over to Raina and narrowed her eyes, but Raina, intent on figuring the best way to get her into bed, missed the fleeting expression. When Raina glanced at her mother’s face she saw exactly what’d she seen for the past eighteen years: nothing.

“It was a good trip,” Raina was saying, “certainly worthwhile. Didn’t sell too much, but made plenty of contacts. Booked three parties, one of them to a lady in Prince George who has six sisters and four brothers. Imagine that, Mama! All those siblings to contend with. And they all have children, well, all except one, who’s still a bachelor, but when they get together at Christmas, they have to rent a hall. Said there was fifty-seven altogether, counting all the kids and grandkids. Said they had to do three turkeys! Can you imagine that, Mama? Three turkeys.” Raina smiled wistfully. “Bit different from our festivities, eh, Mama? With only you and me and the nurse, why, we just need an itty-bitty bird. Okay, I’ve got your bed settled. Are you ready to make the move? I’m gonna count to three, Mama, and you’ll need to help me because I’m lifting you by myself. The nurse has gone off somewhere, don’t know where but she’ll be back soon, I’m sure. Okay – one, two, three... thatta girl, good job. Let me just take a peek at your diaper... oh, good, nice and clean. Anyway, the nurse will have to come back, because I got that big convention to go to next week. Remember that, Mama? I told you all about it. The regional vice president will be there, giving out awards.”

Raina pulled the covers up to her mother’s chin and gently stroked her face. “And tomorrow, I’ll try some of the new colors on you. Just wait till you see the new spring line, Mama, you’re gonna just die!”

**

Gillian woke with a start. The room was dark and she lay deathly still, straining to hear what had disturbed her. Shadows played directly over the exposed beamed ceiling, creating an explosion of haunting images, giving Gillian the impression of a hatchet rising and falling.

Imagination. It was her worst enemy, as always. She’d had the devil of a time falling asleep, despite her fatigue, and when sleep had come, it brought tormented images that streaked through her dreams like claws. Gillian’s imagination had been getting the best of her since she could remember, an understandable trait for a child, an annoying one for a grown woman.

The room slowly came into focus as her eyes adjusted to the dim. At the door, standing with one thumb plugged into his mouth and the other trailing a blanket, was Michael. His pale blue blanket-sleeper radiated miniature crackles of static electricity as he shuffled forward.

“Jesus-jiminy-Christ,” Gillian exclaimed, bolting upwards. “How did you get out of your crib? Robert, wake up.”

But Robert was already awake, and he was sitting up in bed, staring at
her,
eyes unblinking.

“The baby,” said Gillian, throwing her blankets off. The night air hit her like a freezer blast. “He must have learned how to climb from his crib. Did you leave the railing down?”

“No.”

“Huh. My fault, I guess. I never checked him, just listened at the door.” She yawned. “Man, I’m tired. Keep imagining the weirdest things.” She patted the bedcovers. “Come on, Mikey,
come to Mommy.” The child continued to stare, sucking his thumb mechanically. To Robert, she said, “I think he’s still asleep. Looks like he’s in a trance.”

“I’ll get him.”

“No,” Gillian said, climbing from bed, “let me.” Goosebumps sprung across her arms. “Furnace must be out again. Jesus, it’s freezing in here.” When she was within inches of the child, he abruptly turned away and padded sure-footed down the hall. Gillian stared. Michael had started walking last month, and when she left three days ago he’d still been on the wobbly side.
“Michael?” Gillian called, frowning. “Where are you going?” She followed him to his room, watching in stunned silence as he pushed a chair to his crib, climbed it, straddled the rail, and then settled in.

“Mikey? Honey?”

“Go. Away.” The words were distinct. Gillian blinked twice, then started forward.

“No! Go away!” This time there no mistaking the command. His very first words, uttered with conviction and clarity. The remaining doubt was effectively eliminated as Michael’s pudgy little finger pointed directly at her, punctuating his statement with brusque determination.

Gillian hesitated, torn between giving her son the space he obviously desired and her own urge to scoop him into her arms and hold him tightly. Three days away and her baby was treating her like the antichrist. He glared at her, hatefully, and with heavy heart she settled for adjusting the space heater in his room, which for some bizarre reason was turned to zero, then carefully shut the door. This was a bad dream, that’s all. A nightmare from which she would soon awaken.

Robert had gone back to sleep, snoring lightly, and the bed yawned like a coffin. Without conscious thought, Gillian grabbed some warm clothing, dressed quietly in the unlit, icy kitchen, then went outside with the intention of finding Casper. Usually the darkness outside would unnerve her, but tonight, under the light of the generous moon, it seemed infinitely less threatening than her own domicile

“Casper,” she called quietly, glad to be doing something,
anything.
But mostly, she was glad to be away from the family she’d been so desperate to see only hours before.

**

Max’s European Delicatessen was open. The overhead lights shone warmly in the dark night and the ‘welcome’ sign hung in the door. Maxwell Schmidt didn’t expect any business but since he couldn’t sleep he figured he might as well be open. You never knew what kind of company the night would bring.

Max’s deli was the only official business on Cedar Island, aside from some cottage industries, and Max did a considerable trade with the locals. His apple strudel was so exquisite that people drove from a wide radius to patronage his establishment, and his reputation insured that had he not been the only game in town, he would still be successful. If Max’s strudel was fine, the rest of his cuisi
ne was legendary: tender schnitzel smothered with sauerkraut, spicy bratwurst sausages on home-made kaisers, and a chocolate torte that would make the Sacher Hotel in Vienna weep with envy.

On nights when his lower back was acting up, like tonight, Max would trade the agony of his bed for the comforting aura of his kitchen. He spread the flour lightly over the old wooden block table, then gently worked the strudel pastry so thin you could read a newspaper through
it. His strong forearms made easy work of the tedious task, and the rolling motion soothed his back. He stopped for a moment, ran a finger through his cropped, ginger-grey hair and stretched his shoulders back until his stomach stood out like a pregnant sow and the tight muscles popped one by one. Then he bent over, wiggling his handlebar mustache in the same fashion that always made the children squeal with delight, and got back to work. The baking wouldn’t alleviate his pain but it would help take his mind off it.