Nikki, Dani’s beagle, snorted, snored, and drooled. A painter might have been tempted to call this portrait of canine contentment a natural sleepscape.
“Dani, I warn you. I don’t have your mother’s ability to remove bubble gum from hair,” John said, swivelling his head with the force of a lawn sprinkler in time to catch Dani’s latest attempt at the world bubble-blowing record.
“Now, of course, you’ve probably seen some of Thomson’s better-known paintings—The West Wind, Northern River…”
“And The Jack Pine,” Bob added from the passenger seat.
“Yes, The Jack Pine, definitely,” Dani’s dad agreed. “During the First World War, no one painted quite like him. He was an innovator who influenced the Group of Seven. In fact, The Canadian Encyclopedia described his style as a ‘smash and stab of passion flying before thought.’ What’s more, he was an outdoorsman, a naturalist, a park guide, a skilled canoeist…”
Dani’s latest giant bubble smacked as she flipped through a book and periodically vocalized a lethargic “Uh-huh.” Meanwhile Caitlin, steeped in the sunshine coming through the van’s windows on this humid August morning, struggled to keep her eyes open.
John lifted an eyebrow with annoyance. “Oh, I’m being boring, I guess.”
Dani gathered her gum and poised for another attempt as Caitlin thrust her head upward, alert but not particularly aware. “Oh, no, sir, we were following your story.”
Looking at her friend, Dani placed a hand over one side of her mouth and whispered, “Sucker.”
Caitlin continued to incriminate herself in a groggy, slurred voice. “Camping and painting…7-Eleven, yes, very interesting.”
John’s second eyebrow climbed next to its neighbour. “Yes, well, it seems Thomson inexplicably turned to canvas after a successful career painting all the 7-Eleven stores. Of course, there were only a couple dozen in the chain around the First World War.”
Dani’s gum bubble popped again, this time covering much of her nose. “Darn, I was so close.” As she struggled to gather the remnants of her deflated masterpiece, she added matter-of-factly, “Sorry, Dad, but where exactly is the mystery here?”
John sighed and rolled his eyes at Bob, who rolled his eyes back at John.
“And another thing,” Dani added, picking gum off her nose, “how come his parents called him Tom? Didn’t they remember their own last name? And doesn’t Thomson mean son of Tom? So was his dad’s last name Thomson, too?”
Nothing came from the front seat but sighs. Caitlin tried to seem alert so Dani’s dad wouldn’t be insulted. But her eyes were very, very heavy. The sunlight was so warm and comforting, and the movement of the car lulled her into seductive sleep. With thoughts of down-filled comforters, Caitlin let her head sink, her face moulded to the car window as a small stream of drool seeped from her misshapen mouth. From deep, deep within the well of her mind a more conscious and alert Caitlin struggled to ascend the slippery wall and rouse the dozy girl creating the pool of liquid on the window. Several times she managed to climb to the top, peer out, and catch fragments of what Dani’s dad was saying, but each time she slipped back down and landed in that comfortable place. Looking up at the well opening, she vaguely wondered why she even struggled, why she didn’t just lie back and enjoy the tingling sensation of sleep. And then that rambling voice began again…
“Goes off on his own into the wilderness, paints these national treasures… and I’m talking about over three hundred sketches and at least twenty-four canvases in just three and a half years… sells some for next to nothing or gives them away… a few people in the know start to understand he’s a really good painter, especially after the Ontario government pays $250 for a single painting, Northern Lake, quite a sum for a relative unknown at the time.
“This begins to establish his reputation—or notoriety, to some—but to the residents of Canoe Lake, where he spends most of his time from early spring until late fall, he’s just Tom Thomson, keen fisherman, skilled outdoors-man, expert canoeist, and all-round regular guy. Kind of a loner, nice guy, liked by most people. Even has a girlfriend among the summer residents of Canoe Lake, an otherwise resident of Huntsville.
“Well, actually it’s never really known just what the nature of the relationship is. In fact, it’s never exactly clear what happened during the days and hours leading up to his unexpected death on July 8, 1917. The whole saga of Thomson’s life and death at Canoe Lake remains to this day a living mystery, with the cloud of murder always hanging over the case, a sort of stormy silence that won’t go away. Why, even now—”
Something caught Dani’s attention as she carefully spread her gum across her teeth. Something caught Caitlin’s attention from the depths of the down-filled well where she lay blissfully imprisoned by a thousand pillows.
“Mystery?” Dani asked with sudden excitement.
“Murder?” Caitlin questioned with a slight slur from that pesky saliva that left distortions of her face on the window.
The dads looked at each other, then quickly into the back seat.
“Dad, could you please tell us more about this mystery? And, by the way, we can hear fine when you’re looking at the road.”
“And don’t forget about the murder, please, sir,” a wideawake Caitlin added.
John’s mouth hung open, but words failed him completely.
“Are you girls… really interested?” Dani’s dad finally asked.
“Absolutely!” the girls answered, with just a tad too much enthusiasm.
Dani could see her dad’s eyebrows in the mirror scrunched up with confusion and doubt.
“What kind of mystery could stay a mystery for about a million years, Dad?”
“And who murdered Tom Thomson, sir?” Caitlin asked while attempting to unsmudge the window glass with her T-shirt.
Dani rolled her eyes. “If they knew who murdered Tom Thomson, it wouldn’t still be a mystery.”
Caitlin folded her arms decisively, felt some dampness on her sleeve, and quickly unfolded them again. “I knew that. Really.”
“Well,” Dani’s dad began, still unsure of his audience, “the first mystery is whether or not he was murdered or simply had an accident. That’s been a great Canadian question mark for about eighty-five years, which isn’t quite a million years. People were divided over the question of accident versus murder at the time and remain divided today.” Another quick glance in the mirror confirmed the interest was genuine.
“How come they still don’t know, Dad? I thought murder mysteries were always solved after half a million years or so.”
“Well, the thing is, Tom Thomson died under very suspicious circumstances, and there were no witnesses.” Dani pulled her trusty journal and pencil out of her knapsack. “Tom drowned in Canoe Lake. But the whole thing’s bizarre, really. He was an experienced canoeist and a very good swimmer. The day he died was calm and he was paddling on very familiar waters. But what’s strange is that earlier he’d had a dispute with a German fellow named Martin Blecher. They had argued about the war Canada was fighting with
