Scattered Bones (17 page)

Lucretia chooses her best dress, a rippling, deep-violet, satin, flapper-style with a drop waist, the bodice covered in lilac sequins. To Annie it looks like a sack, albeit a tarted-up one. She thinks Izzy is much prettier in a slim-fitted, belted frock of flower-print cotton with a bow at the neck.

Lucretia, however, is outraged. “For goodness sake,” she cries. “For once couldn’t you dress with just a little style? You remind me of a farmer’s wife.”

“Annie thinks I look nice, and so does Father, so maybe you’re the one who is wrong,” was Izzy’s impudent answer.

Once again her daughter has gone out of her way to annoy her.

~•~

It’s a little cooler
this evening, there’s a breeze but it’s still a blast furnace inside. Lucretia is about to tell Izzy to open the door when she realizes the screen has a hole in it and the mosquitoes will descend like an avenging army. Oh, the torment of this place, she thinks.

Izzy counts on her fingers the number of invited guests. “There are not enough chairs. We’re at least two short. Sure hope someone doesn’t show up,” she says to her father who has just walked into the room.

“I’m sure Father Bonnald won’t come. We had a major disagreement this afternoon.”

Lucretia has been wondering what was bothering her husband – he’s even more taciturn and irritable than usual. And, since Izzy has rushed outside on some pretence, she is obviously avoiding him for some reason. Well, Lucretia hasn’t the energy or patience to deal with it now.

The first guest, Doc Happy Mac waltzes in arm and arm with Izzy. “Please excuse if I’m early,” he beams. “I’m desperate for a taste of something that’s not from a can.”

“We’re delighted you’re here,” Ernst says, and offers him some sherry. “We keep it for medicinal purposes, of course.”

The doctor plunks himself down on the sofa, but he’s obviously excited about something. “I suppose you’ve heard the news?”

Izzy, Lucinda and Ernst shake their heads no.

“The Famous Author is abandoning us. Apparently he’s fed up with roughing it in the bush. Sunday morning he leaves for The Pas and will catch a train there for Winnipeg and then New York. Mr. Jan’s arranging everything. In fact, he’s travelling with him.”

Lucretia heart leaps. How will she bear Arthur’s absence? And yet, what he told her this afternoon, it must be true. “Big metropolises, wonderful city, here I come,” she sings to herself.

A loud bang at the door announces the next guests. Bob Taylor, Claude Lewis and Joe Sewap all try to get through the door at once.

“Hi folks,” the Indian agent calls out. “I’ve just been telling Doctor Lewis here about our trip in the hydroplane this afternoon. Joe and I went up, and I can tell you it was a thrill.”

“I was there when it arrived,” butts in Claude. “We were in Arthur Jan’s store when somebody yelled, ‘A flying boat is coming.’ We ran out and joined the Indians heading for the beach. The big bird swooped down – you couldn’t believe the size of it. I’ll bet you it was twenty feet long. It landed in an amazing cascade of water and taxied right up to the dock. The fellow standing beside me said, ‘I wouldn’t have bet two nickels that that sucker could fly.’ It’s the first aeroplane the Indians in this place have seen.”

Bob Taylor explains that the pilots were taking aerial photographs of the Churchill River and Reindeer Lake so that the surveyors could be more accurate in their work.

“They said they were finished for the day, but I asked them if they couldn’t do one more short run. The photographer and mechanic didn’t feel like going, but the pilots said okay, seeing I was an employee of Indian Affairs. Joe was standing next to me, I grabbed him, and away we went. It was wonderful, I can tell you, feeling the wind rushing around you like that.”

“That machine was a beauty,” adds Joe. “All mahogany finish inside. Plenty of room for the crew and all their supplies. They told me it used to belong to the Royal Flying Corps, left over from the war. Boy, would I do anything to fly one of those.”

Abruptly he remembers why he is there. “By the way, Father Bonnald has asked me to apologize, but he can’t make it tonight. His brother’s not feeling well, and he thought he’d better keep an eye on him.”

Ernst feels a lurch in his stomach. “Oh Lord, I’ve made a lifelong enemy out of that priest. What will he do to me?”

Izzy says to herself, God Bless Father Bonnald for sending Joe in person to deliver his regrets. “Hey, Joe,” she shouts, “why don’t you join us? Plenty of good food and conversation.” He nods and she beams.

At that moment Russell and Florence Smith arrive. They too had witnessed the marvel that afternoon.

“Do you know,” says Russell, “at this very moment two American army float planes are hopscotching round the world. They reckon they’ll cover 27,520 miles. Unbelievable!”

“That’s all very interesting,” interjects Florence, “but what I want to know is why the heck those surveyors docked at Arthur Jan’s post rather than our place.”

“Because that’s where the gasoline was stored,” Bob Taylor says sarcastically. “Maybe the old HBC should jump a little quicker.”

The talk then turns to how weird the times are. Every day, someone is performing some crazy feat or other. “Did you hear about that stunt actor, Alvin Shipwreck Kelly?” Doc Happy Mac asks. “The chap sat atop a flagpole on the roof of an L.A. hotel for thirteen hours and thirteen minutes. All for the publicity. What an idiot!”

“And what about that couple in Cleveland?” Izzy adds. “They dragged themselves around the dance floor for a full ninety hours until they finally collapsed. At least they got a pretty good cash prize.” To herself she says, I wouldn’t mind doing the tango with Joe for the next thousand years.

“Even royalty is getting into the act,” hollers Florence. “Did you hear about the Prince of Wales? He’s on a tour in America and wanted to be taken to a dance hall. Once there, he pushed the drummer aside and banged away all night. It’s a wonder that he’s not deaf.”

The conversation continues as lively and as interesting as Lucretia had hoped, but she is worried. Time is flying and her guest of honour has not arrived. She’s heard rumours that Arthur’s been supplying The Famous Writer with copious amounts of liquor. She hopes that he hasn’t passed out, although she understands that an affinity for alcohol is certainly what one might expect of a great artist. She’s relieved when the door opens and Arthur and Sinclair walk in.

Glancing around, the Famous Author booms, “You are to be congratulated, Mrs. Wentworth. You’ve turned this rectory into a palace fit for a king.”

Lucretia cheeks redden. “Welcome, welcome,” she gushes. “I can’t tell you what an honour and a privilege it is to have a writer of such greatness and renown visit our humble abode.”

Ernst gives his wife a look of pleading – please, Lucretia, don’t make a fool of yourself. As he shakes hands with the two men and directs them towards chairs, he notices that his wife says not a word to Arthur Jan, indeed hardly glances at him. “Wonder what sin he’s committed,” he thinks.

Sinclair Lewis plunks himself in a chair, pulls out his cigarettes. Lucretia notices that, without even looking at Arthur, he automatically passes the package to him. “They’ve become great friends,” she thinks. How wonderful. Soon she’ll be sipping cocktails in the Algonquin Hotel’s Oak Room, The Great Writer having introduced her to all manner of famous people

Once the new arrivals are settled, Bob Taylor continues, “We were just marvelling at all the bizarre fads that have taken hold in our modern society – crossword puzzles, Mah-Jong, fox-trotting, you name it.”

“It’s madness what people do. There were lineups for blocks and blocks in New York just to hear Howard Carter give a lecture at the natural history museum,” says Claude Lewis. “He’s that English chap that discovered King Tut’s tomb last year. They say anyone who fools with the little Pharaoh’s grave is cursed. I didn’t believe a word of it until Lord Carnarvon, the man who put up the money for the expedition and was there when they opened the sarcophagus, was bitten on his cheek by an insect and died a few months later. Well, we’ll see what happens to Carter himself.”

“It’s true, people can’t get enough of Tut,” adds Russell Smith. “But it’s not only Egyptian antiquities they’re nuts about. Last year that New York millionaire George Heye bought some tatty old blankets from Peru. I think he paid over $6,000, if you can imagine that. Apparently he’d do anything to get his hands on the relics of even our long-dead Indians. You’ve had dealings with Heye, haven’t you, Arthur?”

The trader is taken aback at this. He waves his right hand across his face as though brushing aside the question. “I’ve heard of him, but never met the chap. Can’t think of why I would.”

Lucretia is desperate to steer the conversation towards The Distinguished Author and his opinion on current literature. “Mr. Lewis,” she begins, “have you found anything here at Pelican Narrows that tickles your writer’s imagination?”

“There might just be a novel stirring in this addled brain of mine. Arthur Jan here would make an interesting character.”

“Villain or hero?” Izzy calls out.

“Both, of course.” Everyone laughs.

“I’ve read all your books, Mr. Lewis,” Lucretia pipes up again. “Some of them, three or four times. I loved
Main Street
even more than
Babbitt
. I know how lonely Carol Kennicott must have been when she arrived in Gopher Prairie. And believe you me, I could understand how she suffered when her efforts to improve the town were just laughed at.”

To everyone’s astonishment, Lucretia stands up, straightens her back, and begins reciting from memory a passage from
Main Street
. “‘Oozing out from every drab wall, she felt a forbidding spirit which she could never conquer.’ That’s exactly what I felt when I first walked around Pelican Narrows. Carol complained about Prairie Gopher, but at least there was a Main Street, and a drug store, and a meat market, and a clothing shop, and a hardware store, and a home furnishing emporium, and a Ford garage, and a shoe store – so who cares if only Oxfords were displayed in the window? – and two banks, and Ye Art Shoppe, and a motion picture theatre, even if it was small and showed only old movies. What is there here? A bunch of log shacks, two churches and two trading posts which carry only merchandise that appeals to Indian taste and you know how awful that can be.

“Carol had the opportunity to join a bridge club; they met once a month for dinner. Here the only people who play cards are Indians and half-breeds and...” – she glances at Arthur – “the odd fur trader.”

Suddenly aware of the faces gaping at her,
she attempts a joke, “And somehow I can’t imagine myself part of that crowd.”

“Certainly not playing strip poker,” Russell Smith guffaws.

Lucretia ignores him. “Carol’s set looked down on the immigrants, called them socialists or anarchists, but at least ideas were discussed. Here, the only thing anybody talks about is when the next mail is arriving. Sure, there’s a class structure in Prairie Gopher, the town’s upper crust were snobs, but, when they met on Main Street, the people at least talked to each other. Here there are the Indians and the whites, and never the twain shall meet.

“Carol thought she’d be the town’s sunbeam and I did too when I first arrived at Pelican, but she, like me, found only ‘misery and dead hope.’ ”

Everyone gawks in amazement as Lucretia’s tirade grows louder and more passionate.

Ernst is stricken – could his wife really hate this place that much?

Izzy is embarrassed. How could her mother put on such a performance? Has she no idea of the beauty that is here?

Only Arthur Jan smiles. He looks like a fox that’s captured a wounded rabbit.

To the relief of everybody, Annie announces that dinner is served.

~•~

Lucretia lies awake
savouring how well the party went. Everyone raved about the food, the music, the conversation. As he was leaving, Arthur gave her arm a little pinch and whispered, “See you soon, my Lady Lucy.”

It’s the happiest she’s been in a long time, but, of course, it has to be spoiled. Ernst, for some reason, begins to paw at her.

“Too tired tonight,” she says as she pushes his hand away. Then feels a twinge of guilt. After all she does have a wifely duty. But Ernst rolls over and soon begins snoring, obviously relieved that his overture has been thwarted.

Lucretia hears the door close softly. Izzy is off on one of her night prowls. Any other place and she’d be worried about her attractive daughter, but there’s no chance she could get into trouble here. There’s not a suitable young man within two thousand miles. She’s probably out star gazing again, her usual idiotic passtime. Lucretia falls fast asleep.

~•~

Izzy spots Joe
in what lately has become their meeting place, a grove of white birches that tonight shimmer silver in the moonlight. He is leaning nonchalantly against one of the trees, smoking a cigarette.

“Want a puff?” he asks her.

Izzy has never smoked, not once. It was forbidden at school, of course, and she was not one of the nervy girls who snuck out the back door, lighting up butts they had found in some laneway. “Sure,” she says, and casually inhales. He laughs out loud when she begins to cough. When she recovers, their eyes meet, and like two magnets, they draw together hungry for their first ever kiss. Except at that moment the militia shows up.