Fit Month for Dying (24 page)

“Is Whitney still alive?”

“As far as I know. I kept tabs on him as best I could. Don't know why, but I did. I know where he moved when our village was resettled.”

“Then we're going to do something about him,” I say, wishing I had said the same words to Greg two months earlier. “It's the only way to make things right. It's the only way to give you some peace. And you won't have to do it alone. I'll be behind you all the way. I promise you that.”

Danny remains quiet, lights up another cigarette, opens another bottle of Black Horse. I can feel the time passing as if someone is counting down the minutes to midnight. By the time he does speak, there has been so much silence in the kitchen that the sound of his voice startles me.

“By God, girl, you're right,” he says, standing up, rejuvenated, ready to fight. “That's just what I need. Him exposed for what he is. That's what always stuck in my craw. That bastard got off scot-free. And if there were other youngsters – not just me — it might help them to know he got his comeuppance. And with Mom gone I don't have to worry about shaming her.” He stops short. “But what about Greg? He's had enough shame.”

At that moment the telephone rings, and although we have been expecting Paddy's call, it still jolts us. Danny picks up the receiver on the second ring and speaks into it very quietly so as not to wake Greg.

“Now I wish I hadn't promised Paddy to go over there,” he laments when he hangs up. “The craving's gone. I'd rather sit here and talk. Imagine that! I'd rather talk than eat roasted capelin. Maybe I should've told him I don't want to leave you here alone. Besides, it's heading for two o'clock.”

“Nonsense. You go on. Have your feed. You've been tied to the house all day. We can talk later. You waited this long, another few hours won't matter.”

He reaches underneath the table, pulls a couple of bottles of Black Horse out of the carton stashed there, and stuffs them in his jacket pocket. Then he goes to the porch to get his winter coat.

After Danny leaves, I sit alone in the kitchen trying to absorb what has just unfolded. One of the first chores I did in the morning when I arrived at Philomena's was to clean up her bedroom, change the sheets and lay out extra blankets, making her room ready for myself for the night. But now I have no use for the bed. The rapid switch from shock at Danny's disclosure to invigoration at the prospect of helping him bring his abuser to justice has banished sleep. When my thoughts factor in the possibility of helping those others who in all likelihood Whitney had victimized, as well as those who as yet hadn't had the misfortune of crossing his path, my brimming guilt makes room for the tiniest speck of peace, perhaps a token of a bearable future, maybe even a joyful one.

I get Philomena's afghan from the den, wrap it around me, curl up in the parlour chair and think of how to begin and where to begin. When my grandmother died, she left her house to my mother, who in turn left it to me. I have kept it rented all these years. Perhaps I could sell it to raise funds, perhaps I could turn it into a safe haven for the sexually abused. And then, too, there is the matter of the Liberal leadership campaign. If I do win the nomination, and if our party does form the government, I may be in a better position to supply help to those who have been sexually abused, particularly to young people who have been abused by people in positions of trust.

There are a lot of ifs and maybes in my plan to help Danny and those others. There is, however, one certainty. I want Greg to share in my peace. Since Brendan's death he has become lukewarm towards the social code of his prestigious law firm, and he has also become less than enthusiastic about being made a partner. In the early days of our marriage, he had talked about someday owning his own law firm. Perhaps now is that someday. If he does get his own practice underway, it will allow him the opportunity to give his expertise to Danny and the others without fear of reproach.

Swathed in the afghan, I squirm in the chair, anxious for morning to come. I want to tell Greg he had been right when he said a brownie and a hug would not be enough. And I want to tell him he is not responsible for Brendan finding the shells to the gun. No one could have imagined that the minute he was left alone he would go searching for them, nor that he would find them, buried as they were underneath old hats, empty shoe boxes, Christmas tree ornaments and other odds and ends accumulated over more than fifty years of marriage. I want to admit to him that it was selfish of me to discard Brendan's belongings the way I did.

Above all, I want to tell him that I had never loved him more than when I watched him, face stricken, shirt blood-spattered, walking across the frozen grass, walking towards the rock wall, coming to inquire about his mother, coming to comfort me.

I tug the afghan closer around me. I look across the kitchen and out through the window. Dawn is just beginning to push away the night. High in the spruce trees, two upstart crows are trying to hurry morning along.