Scare the Light Away (17 page)

Dad opened the front door to greet us and Sampson shot out, tail wagging, beautiful face open wide in greeting. I hurried to get out of the car, shaking sleep from my groggy head, fumbling with the seat belt release, tripping over the door frame, afraid that my dog would scratch the car’s paint in her eagerness to get to me and that Aileen would be mad at her. At me.

“Have a nice day?” Dad called from the doorway, all smiles and baggy pants.

“Wonderful. Except for this horrid rain.” Aileen waved cheerfully. “How was your day, Bob?”

“Fine, thank you, dear.”

“Have to run. Thanks for coming with me, Rebecca. It was lots of fun. See you tomorrow.”

It wasn’t a standard-shift car, but Aileen still managed to clash the gears as she pulled away. Cold rain dripped down my neck, and Sampson muddied my coat as I watched Aileen’s car pull onto the dirt road and disappear up the hill.

***

Saturday morning, I eyed myself in the mirror over the dresser in my room. Lovely shades of purple and green decorated one side of my face.

I hadn’t brought any makeup with me from Vancouver. Makeup, like high heels, power suits, and leather briefcases, was for business meetings. I’d have to drive into town as soon as the stores opened and get something to cover the bruise. Too bad I couldn’t walk around all day with a paper bag over my head. But even Dad would notice that. I struggled to think up a good excuse for my appearance. Walked into a door, tripped over the dog? A frustrating exercise. Why do women feel that they have to make themselves look like idiots in order to hide the evidence of men’s brutality?

Sampson whimpered, her nose held to the crack under the bedroom door. I crouched down and gave her a big hug. “You love me no matter what I look like, don’t you, dog? You don’t even notice. Could have used you yesterday. I won’t leave you behind again.” She squirmed out of the embrace. Dad was up. Kitchen cupboards were opening and closing. Sampson had more important things on her mind.

Ling and her husband had had dinner with the prospective clients last night. I told Jenny to give Ling the number here and have her call me first thing to let me know how it went. It was now 8:00 a.m.; the stores opened at 9 o’clock or maybe 9:30. If I went into Hope River I might not be back until ten. Which was seven Vancouver time. Ling has small children. She would be up early, even on a Saturday. I wanted to be here for her call, but decided to chance the shopping expedition. Even Ling would surely have breakfast with her family before calling me.

Sampson continued to whimper and was getting louder at it. The moment I opened the door she dashed out. Dad was making noises in the kitchen; he would let her out.

I picked two of my mother’s diaries off the floor and stacked them neatly on the night table. I’d fallen asleep reading through the selection that I’d carried up from the basement. They made for pretty tough reading, some of them, but now I was hooked.

I’d let Dad get the breakfast, wouldn’t that be a treat? I sat on the edge of the bed and returned to the page I’d been reading last.

When I looked up again it was almost 8:30. Time for a coffee and to head into town to be there when the drug store opened. The house was quiet; I assumed that Dad had taken Sampson out. Perhaps I should get him a dog. A big friendly mutt, a stray from the pound, a companion, something to keep him from feeling too lonely. He and my mother had been married for almost sixty years. Once I’d gone back to Vancouver and Dad’s life had settled into some sort of routine surely his loneliness would be unbearable at times.

I sighed. My nose twitched as it sensed something foreign in the air. Something wrong.

Smoke?

Smoke.

I threw aside the journal and ran.

Chapter 31

Waves of thick, gray smoke rolled out of the kitchen and down the hall. I burst into the kitchen, my eyes watering, my lungs already gasping for air. The smoke was coming from the stove. There was a frying pan on it and the element underneath shone with a fierce red light. Something black and unrecognizable popped and sizzled in the pan. A dishrag, placed on the counter with its tip resting on the edge of the stove, ignited with a whoosh as I stood stupidly in the middle of the kitchen, looking for something to use to pull the pan off the heat. I leapt back in shock.

Outside, Sampson barked. They were returning from their walk.

I arched my arm around the spitting grease in the pan and the fire-hot element, reaching for the knob. A few spots of hot fat splattered on my bare skin, but I managed to switch the element off before running to the sink. A drinking glass sat on the draining board. I filled it with water and threw the contents onto the dishcloth, now crinkling around the edges and releasing cheerful red sparks into the thick air. Not enough. The dishcloth continued to smolder, and another piece burst into flame. More water. The second glass did the job. I grabbed a drying-up towel from the rack and used it to cover my hand while I pulled the frying pan off the element, which was gradually fading from enraged red to dull, safe black. I turned the burnt scraps with a fork. Bacon. These were the charred remains of rashers of bacon.

“In you go, girl.” My father held the door open to allow a sodden Sampson entry. The dog’s thick coat bore testimony to the fact that it had rained all through the night. She tracked a trail of muddy paw prints across the kitchen floor as she made her way to her water dish.

“Morning, Becky. Sleep well?” Dad pulled off his raincoat and hung it on the hook beside the door. Only then did he sniff the air. “Smells like smoke in here.”

“Dad, what were you thinking?”

“About what?”

“About breakfast. Remember breakfast? Bacon cooking on the stove?”

“Bacon would be nice, thank you, dear.” He used his right hand to wave smoke away from his face, pulled up a seat, sat to the kitchen table, and unfolded the newspaper.

I propped open the back door with a chair, stopped to take a coughing fit, and then opened all the windows.

Sampson sneezed.

“Dad!” I cried, once I had regained control of my breathing. “Did you want to burn the house down?”

“What are you talking about, girl?”

“You left the bacon cooking, Dad. And a dishcloth beside the stove to top things off. If I hadn’t been here, the whole house would be in flames by now.”

He looked up from the paper and glanced around the kitchen. “No harm done. Have you seen the sports section? It’s not here.”

It was an effort, but I managed to control my rage. “I’m going into town to do some shopping. You can clean the dog while I’m gone, she’s covered in mud.”

He looked at Sampson. “So she is. Stores aren’t open yet. You have time to make us breakfast. Eggs would be nice. And there’s some bacon in the fridge. Leastways there was the end of a packet yesterday.”

“Dad. There is no bacon left. You started cooking it before you went out with the dog. Don’t you remember?”

“Sausages’ll have to do. Get some bacon when you’re in town, will you. There’s a good girl.”

I know when I’m beaten. On the bright side, I didn’t have to lie about the condition of my face. Dad hadn’t even noticed. With a good deal of ill grace I rubbed Sampson down with a towel and threw sausages into a fresh pan. The burnt one I’d stuffed into the garbage can, the handle sticking out, pointing back at me like an accusing finger. It could accuse all it wanted: I wasn’t going to make the attempt to salvage it.

I plopped the sausages onto a plate with two undercooked fried eggs. My father smiled at me. A genuine smile, full of appreciation for the food and love for me. I collapsed into the other chair. It was now well after nine.

“Someone from my office might call while I’m out,” I said. “Can you take a message? It’s important. I need to know where I can reach her.”

“Isn’t it a Saturday? Why would your work be calling you on a Saturday?”

“What on earth does that matter? Can you take a message or not, for heaven’s sake? It’s important.”

“Don’t shout, Becky. Not in the house. Your mother never would abide shouting in the house. Of course I can take a message. I’m not completely an old fool, although everyone around here seems to think I am. I can be trusted to take a phone message.”

“Sorry, Dad.”

“Off you go now. Take as long as you like, dear.”

I checked that I’d remembered to switch the stove off. It was cold and nothing rested nearby that shouldn’t be there. Dad sipped his coffee and read the paper. I kissed the top of his head and he smiled up at me.

Sampson and I dashed through the rain to the SUV. At least I dashed. The dog took her time to chase a squirrel up a tree and sniff at a patch of grass. She was once again a sodden blob of good humor by the time she leapt into the car.

I made it into town before the store clerks did, and sat in the car cooling my heels for a good half hour before the lights of the tiny drug store came on and shapes began to move around inside.

Pulling my coat over my head I made a dash through the rain and tried the door. Locked. The clerk looked up at the sound of someone pounding for admittance. She scowled fiercely and tapped her watch. I pounded some more. To little effect. My own watch said 10:02. A small river ran down the sidewalk, soaking into my running shoes.

Realizing that any more attempts to gain entry would only get the clerk’s back up and then I might never be allowed in, I tried to find a bit of shelter from the driving rain in the lee of the building.

The woman drew her eyebrows together in the manner of a particularly ferocious grade school teacher as she pulled back the latch on the door. She looked me up and down, clearly unimpressed, and walked away without a word.

As quickly as possible, I tossed cheap makeup into a shopping basket. Get the job done and get out of there. Foundation, face powder, blush (too pink? too bad!) and brush. As an afterthought a chocolate bar for Dad joined the contents of the shopping basket. He always had a weak spot for chocolate. And what the hell! One for myself.

The sullen clerk was ringing up my purchases when, of all the people I didn’t want to meet, in walked Kimmy Wright, shaking her umbrella to dislodge the raindrops.

“Becky. How nice to see you. Isn’t it a perfectly dreadful day?” She folded the umbrella up neatly and tucked it into her tote.

“Absolutely.”

“How are you and your family managing? My mother wanted to drop by with a casserole the day after the funeral, but I suggested that she wait until you’ve left. Your dad’ll need it more then. Do you agree?”

“Yes. Very thoughtful of you.” I pulled money out of my wallet and slapped it down.

“Don’t you have anything smaller?” the clerk said.

“Eh?” A pink fifty-dollar bill lay on the counter. “Oh, right.” I dug through my wallet and shoved a green twenty into her outstretched hand. She had a bad case of eczema, red and scabby, on the pad of her thumb. She handed me my change and slipped the receipt, makeup, and chocolate bars into a plastic bag.

“Lovely to see you, Kimmy. Do keep in touch. Have a nice day.” I snatched the bag and bolted for the door.

“Excuse me, Miss,” the clerk called. “But don’t you want this back?” She waved the pink bill at me.

With a forced grin that must have looked as bad as it felt, I sheepishly returned, accepted the money, and stuffed it into my pocket.

Kimmy followed me out the door. “That’s a terrible bruise on your face, Becky.”

“It’s nothing, really. I tripped over my dog and fell into the edge of an open door.”

“If you say so. But if you want to talk… I volunteer sometimes at the women’s shelter in…”

“Thank you. That’s kind of you. But I fell into a door. And speaking of the dog, she’s waiting in the car right now. I have to get back, my dad’s also waiting for me.”

Kimmy watched me from behind the big glass windows of the drug store as I drove out of town pretending not to notice her.

“Aren’t you the complete and utter jerk,” I spoke to my reflection in the rear view mirror, once we were back on the highway. The bruise was developing very nicely, thank you. I juggled the thought around in my head for a while. A jerk, an idiot, a fool. It was a foreign feeling. I like to be in control, in my work, my home life. And until Ray’s death, I always was.

And now Kimmy Wright believes that someone in my family is hitting me. Suspicion will almost certainly not fall on my gentle, soft-moving father. The most likely suspect is the former bad-boy, the quick-with-his-fists renegade Jimmy. The news would be all over town by lunchtime.

But perhaps not. If Kimmy really did volunteer at a shelter then she would well know the importance of privacy. Did I care what Kimmy Wright and the citizens of Hope River thought of my family and me? To my considerable surprise I found that I did.

The situation was so absurd I actually laughed out loud. Sampson stuck her cold wet nose between the front seats in an attempt to join in the joke. I rubbed her chin. Before leaving Ontario, I would make sure that Kimmy heard the real story. If only because Jimmy appeared to be having a tough enough time going straight.

I pondered the direction of my own thoughts as I simultaneously drove and scratched an appreciative dog. Did I really think that Jimmy was going straight? Perhaps. He seemed sincere, and Aileen was no bubble-headed bimbo. I decided right there, as I slowed down to allow a tiny brown rabbit with a cotton-ball tail time to scurry safely across the road and disappear into the dense brush, that I would give my brother the benefit of the doubt.

The decision made, I felt a good deal better, and I finished the journey with a touch of a smile on my face.

An old compact, almost as much brown rust as blue paint, sat in the driveway. Shirley’s car.

They were sitting in the kitchen with Mom’s favorite everyday brown teapot and an empty packet of cookies in the center of the table.

Responding to an impulse, doubtless on account of the previous promise to make the most of things with my brother, I planted a kiss on the top of my sister’s head and smiled at my dad.

“Shouldn’t you wash that dog off before she tracks mud all over the house?” was Shirley’s response.

“Tea’s still hot,” Dad said, returning the smile. “Pour yourself a cup why don’t you.”

“In a minute. Did anyone call for me?”

“Yes. I took a message. It’s right here.” He peered through the bottom half of his glasses and read slowly, concentrating. “Some woman named Lynne? Great night. It’s in the bag. Guaranteed.”

“Ling,” I corrected him. That sounded like Ling all right. Everything was always “guaranteed” in her optimistic world. And she was so good at her job that it usually was.

“Mean anything to you?”

“It does, Dad, and it’s good news. Thanks.”

“What’s the matter with your face?” Shirley said.

Amid the turmoil of my thoughts on the drive home and then the pleasure at receiving Ling’s message, I’d completely forgotten the bag of makeup clutched in my right hand, and the bruise it had been purchased to conceal.

Involuntarily my hand rose to touch my cheek. “Nothing. I tripped over Sampson and fell into an open door.”

She snorted, her thin face pinched with righteous justification. “Don’t know why you put up with that dog. It’s nothing but a slobbering mess. You look like you’ve been in a fight or something. Suppose someone sees you. What ever will people think?”

“She’s my late husband’s dog,” I replied, struggling to keep my voice level. “She loved him very much, and now she loves me.”

Shirley had the grace to flush an unbecoming pink and look away. She ran her finger through the crumbs at the bottom of the cookie box.

“It will look worse tomorrow, dear, believe me,” Dad said. “I remember when I was in the army. In a bar in London, it was, not long before I met your mother. A fight broke out. Some fellow had been paying too much attention to someone else’s girl. It had nothing to do with me, I never was one for throwing a punch, but in trying to get out the door I found myself in the way of a wild swing and took a fist straight to the eye. The next day I was fine, although a bit sore with the start of a bruise. But the day after that I was a real fright, got quite the teasing from the other lads.” He chuckled at the memory. My memories aren’t quite so amusing. They are of my father’s black eyes and bruised cheekbones and limping walk in the days that followed one of my grandfather’s temper tantrums.

When I was a child I sometimes wished that my dad would turn into “one for throwing a punch.” Do something to protect himself. But as far as I knew he never so much as raised his voice to his father. And so the abuse went on.

Would striking back have stopped it? Or would my grandfather, bully to the core of his black heart, have turned his fists on someone else? Someone who couldn’t throw a punch if they tried? Like my grandmother.

No wonder my dad had been a drunk.

I escaped to my bedroom to apply a bit of the newly purchased makeup. I looked in the mirror, checking my face from all angles. The makeup did seem to make a bit of a difference. It smoothed the tone out and de-emphasized some of the darker color, if nothing more. Remembering Dad’s wartime story, I shuddered to contemplate what I might look like tomorrow.

“I was in town earlier and I heard that Maggie Kzenic is coming to work for Dad,” Shirley said as I was settling down at the kitchen table with an empty cup for the tea.

“That’s not decided yet. She’s jumping the gun a bit.”

“Work for me?” Dad said. “Doing what? I’ve got no work to offer anybody.”

“You may not think it’s decided, but Maggie told her euchre club, and from there it got all over town, that she’s going to be Dad’s housekeeper. I think you should put her straight, Rebecca.”

“If she wants the job, great.” I poured myself some tea.

“Don’t need a housekeeper,” Dad said. “Any cake left, Becky? Cookies seem to be gone.”