Grave Concern (22 page)

The night of the party, Leonard arrived early, bearing a bottle of Carmenère and a handmade gift certificate for the upcoming season of the Pine Rapids Film Society.

“You'll never make a go of it throwing free passes around like this,” Kate teased.

“Hey,” said Leonard, “it's a gift. Just say ‘thank you,' Kate.”

“Thank you, Kate,” said Kate. And was immediately sorry. She got the message.

Not wanting to add rudeness to rudeness by diving straight into the Carmenère herself, Kate placed the bottle with the others on the table and poured herself a finger or two of the imported screech. She offered Leonard some, which he took with a nod. To forestall swelling violins and a sudden suicidal whim, Kate got busy putting Leonard to work, wiping down wine-glasses and placing them neatly on the table.

In the kitchen, Mary was frantically pushing recalcitrant lobsters back into a gigantic pot. A few survivalists kept creeping up to the rim, and Mary was hopping from foot to foot poking them down with a pair of tongs and a long spoon.

“Kate! Help!”

Even as Kate ran to Mary's assistance, she had to stifle a strong urge to laugh. From where Kate stood, a thick cloud of steam seemed to be shooting straight out of Mary's ear. Kate whooped in delight, and Mary turned. Her dark hair was dripping with condensation, her cheeks were incandescent, tears streamed down her flushed face.
Macbeth witches meet Thelma and Louise
, thought Kate.

As Kate stood agape, Mary cradled the last, un-dunked lobster in one raw hand, holding it up and looking into the black bead of its eye. “I can't do it, I can't,” she said, half-sobbing, half-giggling. “Ludmilla's coming home with me. Ned Nickers needs a friend.” Gently she placed the primitive beast back in its shipping container, where it obediently remained, pincers hobbled by elastic bands, antennae wanly waving. As for the roiling, squealing holocaust on the stove, Kate saw what had to be done. First, a bolstering swig from her cup. Then, taking the garbage can lid — repurposed from a half-century's duty outside — Kate plunked it firmly on the pot.

Guests began to arrive, the usual suspects, but also quite a few Kate barely recognized — Mary's many colleagues, acquaintances, and friends. Leonard segued neatly from wiping off dishwasher film to serving drinks. But Kate made him promise to quit soon, so he wouldn't miss the fun.

“Drink on it,” Kate said, and they did.

Kate noticed an older gentleman perched on the piano bench, looking a little lost.

“Hey Mary, who's that old guy over there in the corner? Not one of mine.”

“Oh, hey! Dad's here. He said he'd walk down from my place on his own.”

“
Dad?
”

“Newfie surprise,” beamed Mary, and headed toward her father with open arms. Embracing the old man, Mary beckoned Kate over.

“Dad, my good friend Kate Smithers. Kate, Eamon O'Beirne,” Mary said with a wink.

“Smithers, eh?” The old man squinted and looked long and hard at Kate. “Ah yes,” he said, with a finality suggesting suspicions confirmed. But he took her hand warmly and thanked her for the party.

“Well, you can thank your daughter. She's done as much or more work on this. When she said she was importing a surprise from Newfoundland, I never guessed it would be her favourite Newfoundlander!” The old man beamed.

Conversation was rolling on in this mutually congratulatory vein, when who should land up on their shingle but Hank Dixon, with that lost Hank Dixon look.

“Hank! Glad you could come!” shouted Kate over the din. She pulled him into their group, and introductions were made. Leonard approached and informed Kate that people were asking for something to crack open the lobsters. Forgetting Hank, Kate hurried off to look for the nutcrackers she'd amassed. Later, having sent forth a lobster juice and butter-chinned wandering tribe, Kate remembered Hank. Before heading to his rescue, she swooshed a little more screech in her glass.

A sudden burst of laughter made her look up. Hank and Eamon were roaring over something — together. If she had to bet, she'd say Hank had told Eamon a joke, the one about the Irishman and three pints of beer. No one had much patience for jokes any more. But it appeared Eamon had time for a joke, and moreover, was returning the favour. Hank leaned in to catch every twist and turn of the plot. Good. Hank had finally met a kindred spirit, or maybe his match. Kate celebrated his success with a private toast.

Kate spied Leonard, pouring drinks for a trio of guests Kate didn't know. She was making good headway toward him when who should step right in her path but a tall, dark fellow in an expensive suit, a stranger, or so it seemed. Not her invitee, at any rate. Must be Mary's. Kate followed his shoulder blades doggedly through the crowd. When he stopped and wheeled around, Kate narrowly avoided a face-to-chest collision.

“Well, if it isn't the hostess herself!”

Well, if it isn't Tim Hinks, our hit-and-run, dog-flattening mayor.

“Great party, Kate!” It had always puzzled Kate how Hinks's demeanour completely belied his Heathcliff-ian cast. “A real knock 'em dead affair!”

Kate bit her tongue. “Mmmm, glad you're enjoying yourself, Mr., uh, Mayor.”

“Please,” he boomed. “
Tim
. We go back far enough, eh, Kate?”

Kate wished he would lower his voice.

“So,
Tim
, how have you been?” Kate spoke in low, controlled tones, hoping against hope he'd take the hint. “Congratulations, by the way, on the recent election. Quite a squeaker, eh?”

Hinks's smile dropped off, but not the decibel level. “Numbers, Kate, tricky things! Well, as you yourself know, I'm sure, in your line of work!”

“Touché. What I meant, Tim, was a hard battle well fought. There was much in your platform to like.”

“Such as?”

Kate racked her brains. The truth was, she hadn't seen much difference among the five candidates. “Uh, the new dog bylaw shows promise.”

Hinks grinned. “My pride and joy. We had a constant problem of enforcement, you know, dogs out of control.”

“Oh, I hear ya. More droppings than grass down at River Park, I'd guess. Jeez, I remember when you could sit on the riverbank there without having to go home and decontaminate.”

“Well, yes, there's that. Free baggies on next week's council agenda! But I'm talking about owners letting their dogs run wild. Frightening children and old ladies. The town has been spending far too many of your taxpayer dollars responding to complaints. You know, the constabulary spends a full quarter of its time apprehending these mutts and returning them to their owners … ”

“People not keeping them leashed, you mean.”

“In a manner of speaking,” boomed Hinks. “The
dogs
may be leashed …”

Kate was confused, but perhaps it was the screech.

Hank continued. “You
could
, I suppose, say the problem
is
droppings — leash-droppings! Dog-owners drop and the duty constable picks it up — after a bracing fifty-metre sprint. It's a mug's game, Kate.”

Kate cracked a smile. When had this brooding object of Porry Frank's pre-teen affection developed a sense of self-deprecatory humour? “So,” she said. “That would explain the headline in the
Snooze
.”

Hinks stood up a little straighter. “ ‘All dogs must be
secured at both ends
'!” he proclaimed, in an inscrutable mixture of irony and bombast. “Isn't it great?”

“The image is certainly intriguing,” Kate said, and, when no response was forthcoming, added, “A great syntactical success, Mr. Mayor.”

Hinks's broad chest expanded ever so slightly, fulfilling the latent potential of the tailored mauve shirt. “Yes, indeed,” Hinks said. “I think you'd agree it's tactical thinking like this, going forward, that'll win the day.” With this, the mayor's eye, which had been scanning the room above Kate's head, appeared to find its quarry. With little ado, the man was gone.

Now there was a guy she'd never figure out. But then, she didn't much care if she did. Kate took a long pull on her drink. And another, to settle her nerves. The more of this stuff she drank, the smoother it became. She paused to watch her guests — friend and foe, stranger and neighbour. She closed her eyes and floated up on the common rhythms of party conversation since the first cavewoman held a wine-and-cheese — the steady roar, the sudden lull, the inexplicable crescendo and decrescendo, the single exclamatory shout or laugh rising in descant above it all.

Kate saw and heard and tasted this thing she had created, and it was good. This was what she'd wanted to provide — fun and fellowship, the unparalleled satisfaction of sociability, the dispersal of rancour, a fresh start in the weeks and months to come, to say nothing of some social life for Mary. It occurred to Kate that, as hostess, she could tinkle a spoon on her glass and make a little speech. Yes, indeed. The more she considered this, the better the idea seemed. She felt a sudden, pressing need to recognize the collective — a warm feeling, spreading outward from herself, infusing itself through the crowd. She would thank everyone for coming, and especially thank her helpers, Leonard and Mary — what dear friends she had! She would recognize those who were here from afar — Eamon O'Beirne, for example — and raise a toast to … what? What exactly were they celebrating? Well, it would come to her in time. As Kate basked in this warm fellow-feeling, one might even say
love
, the room gave a little shake. Kate looked around. Others seemed not to have noticed; interaction proceeded apace. So Kate held her ground and waited. Nothing. Well, small earthquakes were not unknown in these parts. She recalled a handful of them when she was young. Nothing to worry about.

At this moment, a loud interruption caught everyone out. Alarmed, Kate held her breath, and exhaled in delight as she placed the sound — a fiddler's bow testing a string. Someone had unearthed a violin from his car and coaxed Eamon O'Beirne to a tune. Gwyneth Waters — who knew? — sat at the piano, which had been so long collecting dust in the living room Kate had virtually forgotten it was there. And … no, really … Mayor Hinks? … laboured over Kate's old guitar, on which she had mastered precisely three chords around 1972.

A prodigious amount of tuning ensued. At some point, the warring pitches declared a truce, and everyone stopped talking to listen. With the first dizzying notes of an actual tune, the crowd was energized. Eamon sawed away, Mary shouted out “Devil's Dream!” and everyone fell to clapping. A lanky, bearded stranger linked his arm in Kate's and swung her around. Someone nearby followed his example, and the hopping, swirling dance caught on in a chain reaction until the whole room came swirlingly alive.

One dance melded into the next, and after a while, Kate breathlessly begged off. She was headed down the hall for a drink of water and to make sure Leonard was enjoying himself, when Nicholas Enderby appeared beside her, extending a champagne flute. A fine spray of bubbles pup-pupped above the rim.

“They're giving these out,” he said. “Uh, I owe you an apology.”

“For what?” said Kate, gulping down the drink. “Sorry … thirrrsty,” she burbled from the depths of the flute.

“You know very well what, Kate. The café. Accusing you of not knowing what you're talking about. Even though you clearly don't.”

“So are you goinnng to en-light-en me?” Some words, Kate noted, had grown difficult.

“Nope. But there was no call to be rude. I'm sorry.”

It was Kate's turn to feel bad. “We didn't haveto as
sault
you like that. Twoonone. Not fair. Notfair atall.” Kate's tongue was beginning to feel like a rag shug, a shag rug. She took another unsatisfying swig of champagne. “You know, you and I reallllly should sit down and have a lonnng chat.”

Nicholas looked her in the eye then down at his hands.

“Don' you think?” Kate pressed.

“Maybe not such a good idea. I'm a married man, Kate.”

“Noooo, nooo, I donnn't mean like that, Link. Oops.
Nicholas
. Anyway, I gotta get a drink. Of
water
. Ha, ha. Allll's forgiven,” she said, and handed her half-empty glass back to the surprised Nicholas.

“Thanks anyway,” Kate said. “Oh, jusaminute.” Kate grabbed Nicholas's hand, lifted the glass to her mouth and had another couple of sips.

“Good luck,” she said and tried to wink.

Now, where had she been going? Kate found herself in the kitchen, gazing at the cod tongues lined up on a plate.
Dear God
, she thought,
I hope no one offers me one
.

“Hey.”

“Uh,
hey
,” said Kate. Did everyone say “hey” instead of “hi” these days?

“I'm Natalie. You Kate?”

Kate looked up at a face. She knew it was a face; the expected bits were there: eyes, nose, mouth, cheeks, chin. But a kind of scrim had dropped between Kate and the world, making a fool of common sense.

“Tha' would be me,” Kate said.

“Awesome party. Thanks.”

“Thank
you
,” Kate said, but it didn't seem like enough. Maybe she should expand. “Uh, aren't you kinda young for this sort ofthing? Shouldn't you be ata rave orsomething?” Kate placed a hand on the table for balance. Oops, too hard. Some liquid from an abandoned beer stein splashed down her shin, trickled along her instep.

The girl, Natalie, plucked a cod tongue from the plate and held it out to Kate. “I don't know what this is, but it's delicious. You should try.”

Kate held up her hand and stood back. Her stomach rolled.

“I think we met before, downtown at the bar,” the girl said, but Kate took this in only in the vaguest sense. The table had lurched, forcing Kate back to the wall for safety. She held on to the doorframe as discreetly as she could, which she feared might not be very, as she apparently had lost full command of her limbs.