Warpaint (21 page)

“Mom will be over soon. What would you like for breakfast?” But Quiola wouldn't let herself be treated, and so the two women made the meal together, silent until the eggs set. Then, Quiola said, “Do you know David Novitsky?”

“I know the family. His youngest sister went to high school with Mom. Why?”

“I met him yesterday. I got here early so I drove into Grand Marais for lunch. He introduced himself because I reminded him of – someone.”

Beth knocked, then she stepped into the pantry. “Good morning.”

“Mom. Quiola met Mr. Novitsky yesterday.”

“Really? From what I hear in town, he keeps to himself, mostly. Where did you meet him?”

“He came over to my table and said – you see, I – I was actually born here, in Grant Portage, but my mother left and never came back. Anyhow, David Novitsky said I reminded him of my grandmother. Marjorie Otter. Do you know if –”

“Wow,” said Sara. “Mom –”

“Yes, I know. I see. I told you she was a witch!”

“Beth? Sara?” said Quiola. “What do you know? What have I said?”

“Family,” said Sara. “We're family – second cousins or something. No wonder Gran – no wonder – I can't believe she never said anything to me – or to you.”

“But I don't understand –”

“Maybe,” said Beth, “Aunt Liz thought it best to protect your mother's wishes, Quiola. And Marjorie's as well. Rose Otter left, as you said, and never returned. If you ask, Marjorie will say that she has no children.”

“Ask? She's really alive, then?”

“Why of course – I mean – oh dear –”

Quiola had started deep breathing: in, out. “I'll be okay,” she said. “It's just – I just can't – Mom told me Marjorie Otter was dead. I had no reason to doubt –”

“Sit,” said Beth, pulling back a kitchen chair. “Now, please. You look like you're about to faint.”

Quiola sat. “All these years, all my life, I thought she was dead!”

“Mom –”

Beth crouched next to Quiola, to be able to look her eye to eye. “Quiola, listen to me. Your mother made a choice, didn't she? Not you. You were a baby. If Rose Otter closed that door, and left her own mother in the past, I guess she had her reasons. It may be best to leave the matter alone. Do you hear me?”

Quiola started. “I'm sorry. What did you just say?”

“That maybe it might be best to leave this thing alone. Leave it in the past.”

 

♦

 

“Here's the cauldron,” shouted Sarah, gazing down into the rush and roar of a place on the Temperance River people called the Devil's Kettle. Quiola gazed too, dizzied by the water's furious revolving ride until Sara turned away and walked a little distance, and sat on a boulder. Quiola followed, leaning against a slender white birch, her arms folded across her chest. “So, Sara, what happened to Liz's brother?”

“Gran found the cradle empty, as she'd feared. A Novitsky, a white Novitksy, had stolen the baby, and he did it, we think, for revenge. He'd lost his half-sister, then that sister's baby girl, to Parker Moore, and he was a drunk, anyway, a no good, my father used to say. They tracked the man and found him, but both he and the baby were dead.”

“Oh, God, that's awful. You know, I lost a child I loved, once. Not my child, but I loved him, all the same. And C.C. lost her own baby brother, in a fire, a long time ago. All of us – I wonder just how much Liz knew?”

“She knew this much: she was Marjorie Otter's kin. My grandmother, Paulette, she was the younger sister and they were the daughters of Elizabeth Novitsky, who was part-white, and Ralph Otter, a full blood, as they used to say. Grandpa Sven was about sixteen years older than Gramma when they married, but that wasn't unusual, not in the forties. Still isn't, really. Of course Parker Moore never forgave his son, Sven – Grandpa – for marrying, I mean actually and legally marrying, what my great-great grandfather would have called a half-breed, even if Parker Moore was willing to share his bed with one. Or rape her. No one really knows what went on between Parker and that other Novitsky girl, Elizabeth's sister, except that Gran was the result, so I guess it's a lost history, now.”

Quiola closed her eyes. “I can't quite believe this.”

“Me neither.”

“So – tell me, what is she like? Marjorie Otter?”

“She's ancient, of course!” said Sara lightly. “And you want to know the truth? The more time we spend together, the more she reminds me of you. Or you remind me of her. Whichever. She's intense. Quiet. But she has something in her I envy – a certain joy, a way of being with others and the world oh, I can't explain it, but I can feel it, whenever I'm with her. Do you think – would you like to meet her?”

Quiola shrugged, and silence pooled between the two women inside the roaring of the cauldron, until Sara said, “Otters are full of it, that same joy, you know, they're impish, inquisitive. Silly, even. Perhaps Marjorie has been taken over by her name. Does that make sense? Or does it sound – I don't know, like magical thinking?”

“Magic?” Quiola laughed. “My mother would have said power, not magic. And it makes sense, too.” She brushed her palm across that spot just above the heart, where her flesh bore the sleek, undulating silhouette of a river otter at play.