Scare the Light Away (14 page)

On the last day of school, a day that should have been full of the promise of long, hot, free summer days to come, we heard that she was dead.

Sampson ran up to show me a branch she found. She dropped it at my feet and danced in excitement, every muscle in her big body trembling with anticipation as she waited for me to pick it up and throw it.

I stopped walking.

Nothing official was ever said, of course. But one of the girls in my class, whose sister was a friend of Linda’s sister, made sure that the news that Linda had killed herself got around. She had swallowed a bottle of her mother’s sleeping pills and a good portion of her father’s liquor cabinet before going for a midnight swim in the lake.

Mom and I went to the funeral. It was a huge affair; most of the town attended, the deeply grieving as well as the mildly curious. Dr. and Mrs. Richards were pale and shocked. But not too shocked to cut us dead as we approached them after the service, Mom’s hand held out to offer her condolences. Mom retreated, the weight of her shame dragging her head low. A few of her friends from the quilting society gathered closely around her as if she needed as much support as the grieving parents.

As perhaps she did.

The Richards family moved back to England before the summer ended.

The image of Linda’s wild auburn hair, red eyes, dripping nose, and swollen belly as she sped down the crowded school hallway, trying to escape from the echo of my taunting laughter, still haunts me in that out-of-consciousness space that lies between wakefulness and dreams.

The path we were taking ran jaggedly from the back of the big house east through the woods and abandoned farmland to turn south again and run parallel to the main road, part of a patch of land owned by the government. Speculation was ripe that the government-owned property—a good deal of it lake front, with a gentle west-facing slope, close to road and power lines—would be soon be divided into lots and put up for sale. The boon to this area would be enormous. But it would open up the land north of the big house, and Jimmy and Aileen wouldn’t be too happy about that.

The demand for cottages, anything on water and the more open the lake the better, to the north of Toronto was spreading like a modern version of the black plague. Anything reasonably close to the city had long ago been priced well out of the range of the middle class; some undeveloped properties on the more desirable areas went for a million dollars or more. And so it spread out, further and further from the populated centers, the endless search for a perfect bit of woodland paradise.

Reaching a fork in the path, Sampson and I turned south, to where there was nothing at all desirable about the land. No one would be so desperate as to develop anything between my family property and the highway. The ground here lay low and flat and was thoroughly saturated with spring rains and the remains of snowmelt. To the west of me, toward my parents’ house, it became a near-swamp. Unpleasant for people, perhaps, but greatly beloved of dogs. Better not to think of the grooming job awaiting me when I got Sampson home.

These woods were pleasant, waking up to the warmth of spring after a long, severe winter. Handfuls of dirty, wet snow still hid in the bottoms of the darker crevices of the wood and in the shadows of the larger trees, trying to escape the warming reach of the sun for as long as possible. The forest floor was coming to life with bright green shoots and wildflowers popping up out of the thick mud. Most of these plants were grasping at the only bit of sun they would get all year; the forest canopy would soon grow thick and dense. The woods were lovely, quiet, peaceful, but in some indefinable way too civilized. Nothing like the thick, overgrown, ropy forests of B.C., where the trees grow so tall you can’t see the top, even with your head thrown right back and your mouth hanging open. Where moss and vines fill every space with every imaginable shade of green. The rain forest: I hate rain, but I love the rain forest.

I couldn’t hear Sampson breaking small branches and crushing the decaying piles of leaves underfoot. “Sampson, come here. Come here! There’s a good dog,” I called and called, my voice rising with every plea. I stepped off the higher ground and my running shoes sank into the mud.

Her whine came from my left, low and serious. “I’m coming,” I cried, wading deeper into the muck.

She burst from the swamp with a flurry of stinking water and even stinkier mud.

“Oh, for heavens’ sake,” I shrieked. “You’re a bad dog as well as a completely disgusting mess of one!”

Not chastised in the least, she merely shook herself off, sending a good deal of swamp water flying in all directions, before proudly dropping her discovery. A scarf, long and thick, good wool by the look of it, thoroughly soaked in mud and swamp water, despite which the cheerful colors of blue and gold managed to shine through.

“Ugh. I suppose you think this is a lovely present for me.” She wagged her heavy tail in agreement. “Fool dog.” I pushed the dripping mess with my foot. “Nice scarf. Someone will be missing it. But I don’t need a scarf and I don’t want to carry this wet horror all the way home. Thanks anyway, girl.” No need to worry about Sampson’s feelings being hurt at the rejection of her gift. I hadn’t finished talking before she bounded off in search of fresh adventures.

I left the scarf where it lay and walked on. A chipmunk broke cover and dashed across the path. Something unpleasant scratched at the back of my mind. The newspaper article discussing the disappearance of young Jennifer Taylor had described the clothes she was wearing when last seen walking away from her friend’s house. A blue wool coat with matching cap and scarf.

Chapter 26

The Diary of Janet McKenzie. July 12, 1947

I have the house to myself. And the quiet is wonderful. Bob has taken his mother and Shirley to the potluck supper at the church. I complained all day of a headache in order to get out of it. Bob was quite concerned; before they left he made sure that I was comfortably settled in front of the wireless, wrapped in a blanket, with a cup of tea at hand. Once they had gone, I threw off the suffocating covering and headed straight for the bedroom and my beloved diary.

I have a plan. I will give my father one year to settle into his new marriage, Aunt Betty one year to set up her holiday home. And my husband one year to find us a new house. Or in July of 1948, Shirley and I will be on a ship back to England.

Oh, no! A car is pulling up outside. It’s Mr. McKenzie, home early. To ruin my lovely peaceful evening alone.

July 13, 1947

I pulled out this book from its hiding place and held it in my hands. There is a small pile of books under the floorboard. I can see the journal that Aunt Joan gave me for my seventeenth birthday, so full of my hopes and dreams. Was I ever that young? That innocent?

I carried this book over to the stove. It is hot today, very hot. Much hotter than it ever got in England. But I was going to start a fire in the wood stove. A fire to burn hotter and hotter. A fire hot enough to consume my dreams.

But I couldn’t do it. Instead I turned away from the stove and took up my pen and opened my book. I will write it all down, like I promised myself so many years ago.

Bob has taken his mother and Shirley to church. After ensuring that I was perfectly comfortable and had everything that I might need until their return. His father hasn’t been home all night, but that is of no concern to my husband and his mother. And less to me.

I gather that last night’s potluck was a huge success. Mrs. McKenzie proudly carried home an empty pot.

When they got home, Bob took one look at me, cowering in bed, the blankets up to my chin despite the heat of the July evening, and did everything he could to make me comfortable. He put Shirley to bed, after his mother gave her a bath and put her into her pajamas, and brought me tea and some biscuits. He sat beside me and rubbed my back through my thick flannel nightgown and whispered soft words into my ear.

Do I still love him? I think perhaps I do. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of the man I know him to be and the love of him catches in my throat. He is a kind man, a good son to his mother. But he is not a good husband. In the balance of things, what weighs more? I do not know. I considered telling him what happened last night while he and Mrs. M. were at the potluck. And perhaps I would have. If he hadn’t been so kind, so concerned. If he hadn’t been a caring man. I pulled myself deeper into the blankets and drank the overly sweet tea. Bob laid his hand on my forehead and said that I had a fever. He didn’t want to disturb me. He would sleep in the living room, on the couch. He would listen for Shirley, and fetch her if she awoke.

I do have a fever.

But it is not a fever of the body.

It is of the soul.

And it will burn inside me for the rest of my life.

July 20, 1947

Once again, I am sitting up writing in this journal while my family sleeps. Nothing is as I imagined it would be, when Shirley and I first stepped off the ship in Halifax, so full of hope and dreams. How ironic that all my hope died once we arrived here in Hope River. What an inappropriate name. My family is asleep. All of them: my precious daughter, my husband whom I still love, God help me, my mother-in-law, as mindlessly vacant as a sheep wandering the fields, my father-in-law. For whom my hatred has no words.

To my everlasting shame, I lured my husband to the marital bed tonight. Fortunately for some reason he hadn’t had anything to drink. I can still see the stupid smile on his face once he realized what I was suggesting.

God help me.

My body still aches, my wounds are raw. Internal, hidden, known only to me. But if, God help me, I have conceived—and at this time of the month, such is possible—it must be disguised.

He can never know.

April 5, 1948

Of course I can’t ask Bob to climb under the dresser and pull up the loose floorboard to fetch my diary. So this bit of paper the nurse brought will have to do. I haven’t written in my diary for many months. But in here the days lie heavy on me. They bring me the baby every few hours. I hold him to the breast and they take him away again. Until the next feeding. I feel like a milk machine.

The other mothers in my ward seem perfectly happy with this arrangement. They are content to send their babies away, so they can fix their hair and makeup and ensure they look nice when their husbands come to visit.

I would rather visit with my son.

The nurse has been around. Bearing samples of formula, telling us all about the benefits of bottle-feeding. I have decided to breast-feed this time. The nurse is quite scandalized. Unsanitary, she told me.

I am the only mother in this ward who wants to continue breast-feeding. They think it is my strange English ways.

Let them think so.

Bob was in earlier. Looking quite like the cat who swallowed the cream. His mother is minding Shirley, he said. That, at least, I know I can trust.

I want to name him after my father, I said.

Arthur.

He agreed. Arthur McKenzie.

A good name.

Chapter 27

I stopped walking. Sampson trotted back down the trail wondering what was keeping me. That might be the very scarf. Evidence. Should I pick it up and take it home, or call the police and bring them here? They would want to see the site, wouldn’t they? But would I be able to find the place later? Granted this wasn’t the spot where the scarf had been found, that was somewhere back in the swamp where only dogs, adventurous children, and fools would ever go. And murderers.

I retraced my path, all the while imagining the polite scorn if I called the police about finding a clue and then managed to lose it. I decided that I had to hold onto the evidence. This path wasn’t heavily traveled, but it was a path, meaning that people walk on it. Anyone could pick up the scarf; I might not be able to find this spot again. Best to take the scarf with me and leave something to mark the place where Sampson emerged from the swamp.

What to leave as a marker? I didn’t have a bag with me, nor a scarf, hat, or mittens. I didn’t even have Sampson’s bright blue leash; it hung on the coat hook by the kitchen door. I struggled out of my coat, a lovely chocolate brown shearling with cuffs and collar of contrasting beige fur, and hung it on a tree branch. Ray’s present to me the Christmas before last—our final holiday together. I had nothing else to leave behind.

I sprinted down the overgrown trail, Sampson bounding ahead, thrilled at the exercise. The ground felt solid and familiar underneath my running shoes. The path divided again, going east to join up to the highway, where it crossed over and moved erratically on toward town, but heading west it was a short distance to the road that led toward the lake and our house.

Dad wasn’t home, for which I was extremely thankful. No need to explain why I was so out of breath and why I was calling the police.

The number of the OPP detachment was posted beside the telephone in my mother’s neat handwriting. “Staff Sergeant Reynolds, please.” I said the only name I knew, gave my own name, and held on, listening to empty air while Sampson swallowed the contents of her water dish.

“Reynolds here.”

“Rebecca McKenzie. We talked earlier today?”

“I remember. What can I do for you Ms. McKenzie?”

“Are you the officer in charge of the Jennifer Taylor disappearance?”

“For now.”

“In that case, I’ve found something that might interest you. I’m at my father’s home.”

“Is this to do with your brother, Ms. McKenzie?”

“Absolutely not. Are you interested or aren’t you?”

“I’ll be there shortly. Don’t leave until I get there.”

“I called you, remember? I’ll wait.” Jerk. I hung up the phone without bothering to say goodbye.

They made good time. I’d scarcely rubbed some of the mud off of Sampson and put the kettle on before I heard the high-pitched scream of the siren coming down the road and pulling into the driveway.

I unplugged the kettle and walked out to the front porch in time to open the door to Bob Reynolds and his handsome sidekick. “Tell the whole neighborhood you’re coming, why don’t you?” I said.

“You have something to show us, Ms. McKenzie?”

“It’s in here. My dog found it.” Said dog didn’t appear to have forgotten her earlier confrontation with these men. She guarded the kitchen door with her teeth bared and hair on end, her voice low in her throat. I stifled a smile of pride as the constable edged gingerly around her. Good dog.

The scarf sat in the middle of the kitchen table, soaking into a bed of hastily gathered newspaper. We all looked at it.

“I found this while out walking. It might be nothing, of course. But the paper says that Jennifer wore a blue scarf when she went missing. So I called you.” I held my breath, willing them to laugh at my female hysteria and tell me that this was a bit of discarded rubbish and had nothing at all to do with the disappearance of any teenage girl.

“Can you show us where you found it?”

“I think so.”

We trudged back through the silent woods. The earlier sunshine had gone, and thick clouds gathered in the west. The chill enveloped me. I missed my coat. I hadn’t bothered to pick up another. Reynolds demanded that Sampson stay behind, and I’d reluctantly left her in the house, scratching at the wooden kitchen door and whining with enough force to shake the house down if the scratching didn’t work.

We said not a word as we tramped through the silent woods. Reynolds walked beside me and the constable, finally introduced as LeBlanc, followed like a lumbering ghost.

The walk back took longer than I expected, and I worried that I wouldn’t be able to find the spot, and they would arrest me for wasting police time, or some such nonsense. But at last we rounded a corner and there it was, my beautiful coat, hanging from the naked branch of a dying jack pine.

“I left my coat as a marker. Sampson, my dog, brought the scarf to me. She dropped it right there, under the tree. I don’t know where she picked it up.”

The constable reached for his radio and Bob Reynolds did a 360-degree scan of the area. “Where did the dog come from,” he asked, “with the scarf?”

I pointed into the growth of trees, most of them dead or dying, the swamp beyond. He swore and then turned back to me.

“Thank you for your help, Ms. McKenzie. Can you see your way home? We’ll wait here.”

“I’d like to stay.”

“That wouldn’t be advisable. This is a matter for the police.”

Well, la-di-da. Like I thought it was a matter for the Women’s Christian Temperance Union.

***

Sitting sullenly in the house, nursing a cup of overly sweet tea, I could hear the sounds of considerable activity on the road. Cars arrived, doors slammed, men talked in loud voices. Curiosity got the better of me and I crept out the door and back down the narrow path.

A row of police cars lined the road, red lights flashing in the deepening afternoon gloom. Shapes of people moving through the trees and dancing flashlights broke the dreariness. I wasn’t the only onlooker, by far. Locals with nothing better to do were attracted to the potential crime scene like moths to the proverbial flame. My interest, of course, was completely different. I, after all, was the finder of the clue.

A fact that had no effect whatsoever on the shiny-faced, pony-tailed, uniformed constable guarding the path. “No one is allowed down here, Miss,” were her only words.

***

Dad arrived home, almost breathless with excitement as he relayed news of what was happening up on the road. My euphoria at finding the “clue” and the excitement at being involved in the police investigation had died long ago, leaving me nothing but bad tempered and irritable.

I waved him off with an angry gesture. I was on the phone with my secretary, trying to get enough work done to salvage some credibility from the cancellation of next week’s crucial meeting. Dad crept into the kitchen, downcast.

The next interruption was the arrival of Bob Reynolds and the handsome Constable LeBlanc.

“I have to go, Jenny,” I sighed into the phone. “One crisis after another here. Christ, it’s more peaceful at work.”

“Is your father all right?” She was a great secretary, Jenny. Young and exceedingly pretty in a flirty vacant-eyed way that discouraged a lot of people from taking her seriously. Their mistake. To my great good fortune she had been assigned to me as a temporary replacement when Norah, who had been my secretary since my promotion to V.P., quit the day after her husband won five million dollars in a lottery. I was happy for Norah, but sorry for myself. She’d been with the company practically forever and I was a newcomer to the rarefied air of the executive floor. But Jenny proved to be a dream of an assistant once I no longer needed anyone to guide me through the intricacies of being a vice-president.

“He’s fine,” I said. “But there is so much other stuff going on around here, you wouldn’t believe it.” I held up one finger to Reynolds, fidgeting from one leg to another at the front door. “I’ll tell you all about it when I get back. Call me after you’ve spoken to Ling.”

“Will do.”

“Ciao.”

“Ciao, Rebecca. And don’t worry. We can manage here without you for a while.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” I was only half-joking. I hung up and opened the door to the police.

“I don’t appreciate being left standing on the front stoop while you gossip on the phone, Ms. McKenzie.”

“That
gossip
, Sergeant Reynolds, could buy and sell this entire town. With yourself and your friend here thrown in as chump change.”

The constable grinned, the first expression I’d seen cross his striking face. His teeth were small and badly stained, the smile thin-lipped. What a disappointment.

Dad wandered out of the kitchen carrying a can of pop. “Bob. What brings you here? Did you find that girl? What’s with all the police cars up on the road? Folk said you’re searching the swamp.”

“We were. Your daughter found a scarf up there earlier today.”

Dad looked at me in amazement. I shrugged.

“Can I offer you and your friend a beer, Bob?”

“No. Thank you, Mr. McKenzie. We still have work to do. Sorry about your wife.”

“Thank you.”

I got off the phone for this? “Do you have something to tell me, Sergeant?”

He turned his attention in my direction. “Mrs. Taylor has positively identified the scarf as belonging to Jennifer. Apparently Mrs. Taylor’s mother knitted it herself, last Christmas, so it’s an original.”

“Oh.”

“Wanted to let you know that we’ve finished, for now. We didn’t find anything else significant in the area, but we’ll be back tomorrow at first light. We appreciate your help in this matter.”

“My pleasure.”

“I have to ask you to stay out of that area until we’ve finished. But otherwise, when you’re out walking your dog, keep your eyes open for anything out of the ordinary. That goes for you too, Bob.”

Dad nodded enthusiastically.

“That scarf could have come from anywhere, couldn’t it? I mean Sampson brought it to me; another animal could have deposited it in the swamp.”

“We’re aware of that.”

“Good.”

I closed the door behind them and rested my back against it.

“That’s real exciting, Becky,” Dad said. He sat in his favorite La-Z-Boy and picked up the remote. “I wish I’d been here to see this scarf.” He pushed a button and the sound of an overloud commercial filled the room. “What’s for dinner?”

“Actually, Dad, it might be more excitement than we want. The cops are already nosing around here a bit too much. It’s not good that something has concentrated their attention even closer.”

“What do you mean, nosing around? It’s what they’re supposed to do. It’s their job, investigating. That girl lived not far from here, and her family store is down the road a bit. The police will be looking everywhere.” His eyes drifted back to the TV, where a car chase of some sort was going on. Much squealing of tires, crunching of metal, and shooting of guns.

“Dad. They’re talking to Jimmy. That’s not good. Aileen’s pretty upset about it.”

“Jimmy didn’t have anything to do with this. The police will find that out soon enough and then leave him alone.”

Not for the first time, I wondered in what dream world my father lived.

And was there any room in there for me?

“Now, what’s for dinner? I’m hungry. Didn’t get any lunch.”

I took the empty can out of his hand. “Let’s go out for dinner, okay? I don’t feel much like cooking.”

***

Eating out turned out to be a bad idea. There is only one restaurant in Hope River. It sits on the main street across from the grocery store and is a run-down old place with cracked plastic on the chairs, an ancient linoleum floor, stuffing popping out of the booth seats, ceiling tiles stained with damp, poor ventilation, and the heavy smell of frying food. A souvenir clock from Sudbury and a calendar from the Jones Brothers’ Auto Body Shop were the only wall decorations.

Every face in the room turned to watch us walk in. Dad smiled and greeted most of the customers by name as we made our way to a vacant booth. They nodded in return, but there was no small-town friendliness filling the grease-tinged air. No concern for the recent widower’s welfare. The faces were closed, cold, verging on unfriendly. For a few moments I struggled to understand what was going on. Many of these people had been at my mother’s funeral—was it only two days ago?—commiserating with Dad on his loss and drinking their fill of Jackie’s tea and Dave’s beer.

But soon enough I got the picture: News of the police search of the swamp near our property must have spread through town, greatly enhanced, no doubt, as it passed from mouth to mouth. And if the police were suspicious of Jimmy for no other reason than his past, what might the town be thinking?

The waitress slapped two menus down on the table. “Evening, Bob,” she said. “Sorry about your loss.”

“Thank you, Maggie.” Dad buried his head in the menu. I don’t know why—it had scarcely changed in all the time I’d been away.

She tapped her pencil against a grease-spotted note pad, waiting for us to make up our minds. “Meatloaf’s the special tonight. Comes with mashed potatoes and peas.”

“A hamburger, please,” I said. “And can I have a salad instead of the fries?”

She shrugged and wrote something down.

“The meatloaf is always great here. I’ll have that. Thank you.” Dad smiled and handed her his menu.

She smiled back and patted her over-colored, permed, and sprayed hair. She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. “Back in a jiff.”

We looked at the paper place mats and twiddled with our cutlery. My dad and I have never had much to say to each other.

Maggie brought glasses of ice water. Faint remains of a smudge of red lipstick marked the rim of mine. I pushed it to one side. At least my knife and fork were sparkling clean.

I cleared my throat. “We were thinking, Dad, that it would be a good idea to get a housekeeper for you. Someone to look after the house, get your breakfast, that sort of thing. What do you think of that?”

“Who’s ‘we’?”

“Jimmy, Aileen, and I.”

“Can’t you do it?”

“I won’t be staying much longer. Another week and I have to go back to Vancouver.”