The Early Investigations of Joanne Kilbourn (41 page)

“Oh,” Christy said, “it seems so soon.”

“We’re leaving after breakfast tomorrow. There won’t be anybody here to look at it,” Peter said, and he began wrapping the lights around a cone of newspaper. “A woman on
Good Morning, Canada
showed how to do this,” he said. “It’s supposed to keep them from getting tangled.”

“I’ve certainly tangled enough in my time,” I said.

He smiled. “It’s because you don’t watch enough television.” Then he looked up. “It was a great Christmas wasn’t it, Christy?”

I looked at her standing in the doorway. She was wearing a Christmas sweatshirt under a pair of red overalls, and she was flushed with happiness. I expected her to answer him with her usual headlong rush of superlatives, but she looked at me and said simply, “It was the best Christmas I ever had,” and I could see why Peter was beginning to care so much for her.

“Pete,” I said, “be a good guy and show Christy and me how to make those paper cones. I hate it when you kids know more than I do.”

The next morning as we started for Greenwater everybody was in a rotten mood. Mieka and Greg had almost cancelled because Greg was coming down with a cold; Peter was angry because, at the last minute, Christy had decided to go to Minneapolis with friends instead of coming north with us. Angus was worrying about the dogs languishing at the vet’s, and I was worrying because everybody was so miserable. To top it all off, the weather had warmed up dramatically.

When I went out to the car for a last-minute check, Pete was clicking the new skis into the rooftop carrier.

“I wonder if we’re even going to need these,” he said gloomily.

I looked around. The sun was shining hard, and patches of snow on our front lawn were already fragile, melting, blue under white.

“Of course we’ll need them,” I said. “This is Saskatchewan. We’ll need skis, and before the week’s out, we’ll need raincoats, and we’ll probably even wish we’d brought our bathing suits along.” I ruffled his hair. “This is God’s country. Have a little faith, kid.”

He was just beginning to smile when Angus came barrelling through the front door saying Sally was on the phone.

As I went inside, I felt oddly relieved. I picked up the receiver.

“So,” I said, “how was your Christmas?”

“It was a real jingle bell,” she said. “How long have you got?”

“The kids are packing up the car. About five minutes.”

“Okay, in five minutes. First, I didn’t take your advice. Couldn’t wait to break the news to Stu that I wanted to take Taylor. I told him right after we ate. Lousy timing in that mausoleum with that tree straight out of decorator hell.” Her voice dropped. “Honestly, Jo, what did you think of that tree?”

“I thought it was a little excessive.”

On the other end of the phone, she mimicked my words. “ ‘A little excessive.’ Oh, yes, indeed. Anyway, I should have waited till Stu was alone because there was Nina giving him massive infusions of backbone and making subtle remarks about the problems I bring on myself because of my questionable lifestyle and my odd friends.”

“Come on, Sal,” I said. “Be fair here. There
are
problems, and Nina’s stepped right into the middle of them. She’s doing the best she can.”

For a minute Sally’s irony vanished. “Jesus, Jo, are you ever going to wake up to that woman?” Then she laughed. “Okay, okay, I withdraw that. I don’t want you mad at me, too. You’re the only sane person I know. Clea seems to be in deep waters again. Last night Stu caught her in the bushes in front of his house with a video camera whirring away. I think I’m going to have to do something about her, after all.”

“Sally, be careful. Clea sounds as if she’s beyond a woman-to-woman chat; you might just do her more harm than good. She needs professional help.”

“Who doesn’t?” Sally said grimly. “Maybe we can find a shrink who’ll give us a group rate. I could use a little understanding myself. I’m beginning to think the world has declared open season on Sally Love. I haven’t finished telling you about my Christmas. The battle with Stu and Nina was just for openers. When I came back to the studio, there was this box on my doorstep – all wrapped in shiny paper, very pretty and Christmassy. So I took it inside and opened it – it was full of used sanitary napkins. There was a note saying that since I seemed to like filth … well, you get the idea.”

“Oh, Sally, no!”

“Look, let’s be grateful. It didn’t explode or bite. Hold on, there’s more. I took my little prezzy out to the trash, and when I came back in, Izaak was slumped against my front door, full of the Christmas spirit and about a quart of Scotch. He spent last night here, passed out on my sleeping bag. But I wasn’t lonely because Clea was lurking around out front all night with her Brownie.” She was laughing, but it sounded awful to me.

“Sally, why don’t you give yourself a break. Go to a hotel for a few days, or better yet, we’re going to be out of this house in twenty minutes. Come and stay here away from everything. You can take care of whatever business you have to deal
with during the day and get some peace at night. The dogs are already at the kennel, so you won’t even have them to bug you. And we’re both past the stage where a sleeping bag is an adventure. Wouldn’t it be nice to sleep in a real bed?”

“Would it ever,” she said wearily. “You’ve got yourself a houseguest. Leave the keys in the mailbox.”

“They’ll be there,” I said. “Have fun. And I’m sorry about your Christmas. Next year will be better.”

“Promise?” she said.

“Promise,” I said, and hung up.

As soon as we arrived in Greenwater, the cloud that had been hanging over us seemed to vanish. Greg’s cold didn’t materialize. Peter and Angus snapped out of their funks, and the temperature dipped. The skies were clear; the sun shining through the tree branches made antler patterns on the snow, and the ski trails were hard packed and fast.

Every morning we woke to birdsong, the smell of last night’s fire and the bite of northern cold. Our days developed a pattern. As soon as we cleaned up after breakfast, we’d cross-country ski. When we got tired, we’d hike the nature trails and Angus would read the small metal plates that told us what we were seeing: beaver dams, aspen stands, places where carpenter ants had made their intricate inlay on tree trunks and fallen branches.

“Think of a world without decay,” he would read in his serious, declaiming voice. “Think of it. Every animal that died and every tree that fell would lie there forever. Decay is essential to the recycling of energy and nutrients through successive generations of organisms.”

At noon, we’d go back to the cabin, and Mieka and I would make a fire and the boys would make soup in the old white and blue enamelled cooking pot. After lunch, we’d dry our boots in front of the fire and argue lazily about whether we’d
ski in the afternoon or skate or just take the binoculars and a bag of peanuts and look for squirrels and birds.

We’d eat early, and by seven o’clock I’d be in my room working on my book about Andy Boychuk and trying to block out the sounds of the kids laughing and fighting over cards or Monopoly. By ten o’clock we’d all be in bed. The good life.

Until the last day of the old year, the day we left Greenwater, I felt immune to the ugly things that life sometimes coughs up. Then the immunity ended.

I’d given my two guys and Mieka’s Greg new hockey sticks and Oilers jerseys for Christmas, and the morning before we left they headed off to the little inlet down the hill from our cabin for one last game of shinny. After Mieka and I had checked the cabin to make sure everything was packed, we went down to the lake to watch. It was good to stand breathing in the piny air and listening to the sounds of skates slicing the ice and Angus’s running commentary on the game:

“A perfect pass from Harris to Angus Kilbourn – right to his stick, deked the defenceman. Peter Kilbourn’s not looking happy. It’s back to Harris. He’s shooting for the corner. It’s a blistering slapshot but it’s not enough – Angus Kilbourn’s in there …”

Mieka turned to me. She was wearing a new Arctic parka Greg had given her for Christmas, and her cheeks were pink with cold. My daughter had always despaired of her looks, but that morning she was beautiful.

“Mum,” she said, “let’s take one last walk on the lake. These guys are their own best audience.”

We walked onto the ice, past the wood huts of the ice fishers, toward the centre of the lake. It was a long walk and when we finally turned and looked back toward the inlet where the boys were skating, their orange and blue jerseys
were just scraps of colour in the grey sweep of land and lake and sky. They seemed so far away and vulnerable that I shivered and pulled my jacket tight around me.

“Cold?” Mieka asked.

“No, it’s just … I don’t know … usually the sun’s out and the sky’s blue and everything’s like a postcard, but when it’s grey like this, the lake scares me.”

Mieka widened her eyes in exasperation. “The ice is about three feet thick here. We’re perfectly safe.”

“It’s not that. It’s just …” I smiled at her. “You’re lucky you’re sensible like your dad. Good gene selection. Come on, let’s change the subject. It was a great holiday, wasn’t it? And, Miek, I really enjoy Greg. He fits in so well.”

Mieka smiled and looked toward the far shore. We were silent for a while, then she turned to me and took a deep breath. “Mum, I’m glad you like him. That makes my news a little easier.”

Pregnant, I thought, looking at her bright, secret eyes. My mind raced – a wedding, of course. But why ‘of course’? Women didn’t bolt to the altar any more, but still, a baby. A new life …

“I’m quitting school to set up a catering business with Greg,” she said.

“What?” I asked stupidly.

“A catering business. They’re renovating the Old Court House, and there’s a great space on the main floor – central, very posh, perfect location for what we’re planning. Here’s our idea – we’re going to specialize in catering for businesses. We come to your offices or your boardroom and when you break for lunch or supper we serve you a really fine meal. No waiting. No wasting time. Everything fresh – supplies will be key. We’ll pay for the best. Everything freshly prepared – we’ll do the
mise en place
in the main kitchen and bring everything with us. Then when you’re having a glass of wine –
good wine, we’ll have a nice wine list – we’ll cook for you, everything
à la minute
, and everything served by people who care about food. The place I’m after is the old small claims court – I’m going to call the place Judgements.”

“No, you’re not,” I said harshly. “You’re not calling it anything. You’re going back to university next week.”

She looked at me levelly. “Thanks for hearing me out.”

“Mieka,” I said, “I’m sorry. It was a shock – even the French – you got forty-three in French last semester. Where did all this fluency come from?”

She bit her lip and looked across the lake.

I started again. “Opening a catering business isn’t something ordinary people do. It’s something you talk about doing, like writing a novel or living on a Greek island. The food business is brutal, Miek. There was an article in the
Globe and Mail
last week that said for every two restaurants that open, three close.”

She took a breath and turned to me. Her voice was controlled and it was determined. “Mum, I’m not opening a restaurant. Now come on. I have our business plan at the cabin: feasibility study, marketing surveys, projected financial statements – the works. We figure we can open the doors on Judgements for a hundred thousand dollars.”

“Mieka – a hundred thousand! You’ve got to be crazy. Where are you going to get that kind of money?”

“Some of it we’ll get from a bank – the way everybody else does. They’re not keen about financing upscale catering businesses. The bank people I’ve talked to say they’re too risky – capital intensive, labour intensive – you’re right about that. But Judgements is going to work. Greg’s uncle is going to arrange for a line of credit and Greg has a twenty-five-thousand-dollar inheritance from his grandfather that we’re going to use.” She took a deep breath. “Now, I guess you know what I’m going to ask you for …”

“Your money for university,” I said.

“The money you and Dad put away for my future,” she corrected gently.

“I’m not going to give it to you. Mieka, you got a thirty-two in Economics last semester. How in the name of God do you expect to run a business?”

She looked at me hard. “Do you realize that’s twice you’ve mentioned my grades in the last five minutes? But maybe you’re right. Maybe there’s a clue in those numbers. Maybe the fact that, except when you beat it into me, I’ve gotten terrible grades should tell us both something. I’m not a student, Mum. I don’t like to learn from books. I like to do things with my hands. And you know what? I’m good at what I like to do. Be happy for me.” She laughed. “Lend me money. Give me my money. Daddy had enough set aside to get me through grad school. I know that. Well, I don’t want grad school, and they won’t want me, but I do want a chance at my business.”

“No,” I said.

“And that’s it?” she said in a small, tight voice.

“Damn it, Miek. What am I supposed to say when I see you walking away from any possibility of a decent future? What did Greg’s mother say when he told her he was quitting university?”

“He’s not quitting.”

I could feel the anger rising in my throat. “Well, that’s just great. The girl quits school to put the guy through school. Mieka, I’ve seen this movie a hundred times.”

“No, Mum, you have not seen this movie a hundred times. I’m not working at a dumb job to put my husband through med school. I’m an equal partner in a business. Greg is finishing his admin degree so when the time comes we’ll know how to expand our business. We’ve made some good decisions here. Now you make a good decision. Face the fact that I’m just not university material.”

I touched the sleeve of her jacket. “Mieka, please, you’re not stupid.”

She pulled up the hood of her parka and knotted it carefully under her chin. Suddenly her profile was alien. I didn’t know her any more. When she spoke, her voice was patient and remote.