a few years I’ll whittle a stick for you.”
Belle drove home with a nagging concern for her friend. Dementia, what a cruel spectre for someone with a healthy body. Belle’s father had been so vigorous, at eighty-one keeping pace with her all over Epcot Centre. Then, a few months later, he had needed full-time care.
THREE
Several weeks later, a giant wicker basket on her porch snapped Belle out of the doldrums of a Friday afternoon. Wrapped in bright red cellophane was an assortment of fresh fruit, California zinfandel, cabernet and chardonnay, no shoddy brands either, and expensive cheeses sampled only on holidays: triple-crème French Brie, Emmanthaler and a butterscotch square of Gjetost. A pound of cashews and a jar of macadamias completed the feast, along with palm hearts and marinated olives. What gourmet angel had been monitoring her wish list? The card was inscribed with a copperplate style that recalled her mother’s careful hand: “From a grateful client. If you’re free tonight around six, I have some perch who wish to make your acquaintance.” Belle grinned. Mr. Sullivan, Charles, had settled in.
She popped a macadamia into her mouth, moaning at the milky crunch, and took Freya scampering up a path behind her house. Checking the time carefully, she doubled back at Skunk Brook after the animal enjoyed a brief, peaty slurp and was home in time for a bath. As she prepared to leave, ladling out Mature Purina, extra oil and Metamucil, which the vet had recommended for the older dog, she rubbed the velvet ears. “We’ll find out if he likes pups, and maybe next time you can go.”
She strolled to the end of the road, encountering Charles beaming at the gate. He had a proprietorial touch in the way he escorted her down the lane. Wearing crisply pressed khaki shorts, a zippered safari jacket and dark green knee sox, he might be serving with the Raj in rural India, except for the spotless apron around his waist. “You didn’t have to bring anything,” he said as he studied the bottle she presented. “But the chardonnay should complement our friends.” He escorted her to a picnic table by the house, appointed with an Irish linen tablecloth along with an assortment of covered dishes. With a flourish, he filled two crystal goblets, and they relaxed in lawn chairs under a shady grandfather oak next to the house. Old-fashioned citronella candles warded off the bugs with less distraction than the popular electrical lanterns which crackled ruthlessly but dispatched only innocent moths.
“You’re all moved. I wish you had given me a call to lend a hand,” she said.
“No difficulty there, my dear. I’m a simple man and a frugal one. Hired transport can be expensive, so I packed only the bare necessities, as they say, my library and phonograph records notwithstanding.” He coughed and rubbed his back. “You were right about the wretched beds. My Lord, what white nights I spent until the new furniture arrived. Aspirins every hour. My ears are still ringing the ‘Anvil Chorus’.”
She laughed out of hard-gained wisdom. “My cottage had three varieties of chiropractic mine fields.”
He appeared surprised. “But your house is new. When did you build?”
“A couple of years ago. My uncle left me enough in his will for the basic package, and I added the rest a bit at a time. Did the painting and clean-up myself.” She didn’t confess how she had nearly blown the central vacuum by sucking up drywall dust.
Sullivan cocked an eyebrow. “Very wise. So many people overextend. Try to have everything at once. Not the way my family operated, nor yours, I’ll wager.”
“True enough. My parents waited until their forties for our first bungalow. They constructed a basement, covered it with plywood and tarpaper, and we lived there like blind moles until they could afford to finish. Suburban Toronto was loaded with blocks of flat structures with a doorway sticking up. Kids thought it was the way everybody lived.”
A few glasses of wine later, Belle went inside to use the washroom and was amazed at the transformation of the camp. Neutral curtains and paint, a tasteful brown corduroy sofa and a glass coffee table. One wall was covered with books, mostly music and philosophy at a glance. A stereo system played Brahms symphony which floated outside like a blessing. On other shelves sat a few keepsakes, a Toby jug of Falstaff bearing a droll resemblance to its owner, onyx boxes and a folded wooden shape which attracted her. She opened it tentatively to find a delicate carved triptych.
A throat cleared behind her. “Ready for our repast?”
She felt like a kid caught with its hand in a candy jar. “I’m being nosy, but I couldn’t help marvelling at this. What is it, Charles?”
His face seemed more disappointed than stern, though he softened at her appreciative tone. “You have an eye for antiquities. That’s fourteenth-century beechwood. Wiser to preserve it in a safe deposit box, but I enjoy the medieval presence, a link to a lost world of craftsmanship and faith.” Belle replaced the treasure with careful reverence.
The diminutive perch deserved its reputation, cornmeal-crusty chunks sweet and tender within. Steaming baked potatoes arrived with sour cream, chives and grated Monterey Jack, then a deliciously bitter salad of baby greens with tarragon vinaigrette, and for dessert, a mud pie. “Good old James Beard. Louisiana cuisine travels anywhere,” he said.
“Chocolate may unite the world.” Belle wiped her mouth in slight embarrassment after wolfing the pie. When he brought seconds without asking, she decided that he would make a toothsome addition to the lake.
Later that month, with the hot weather coaxing the loaded fields to sweet fruition, strawberry season began. Joining the hordes who had driven on a Sunday morning to the Valley, a rich glacial till deposit where farms thrived, she was entertained by the babble between rows as she knelt to scoot her canister along. “Old man’s no problem,” a woman in a tattered straw hat said to her nodding friend, their sweating faces as plump and scarlet as the berries. “Park him under a tree with a couple of beers, and he’s happy as a clam for hours.” At the cash, Belle found herself overloaded with quarts. Criminal to waste them. Anni might like some. Their paths hadn’t crossed in weeks.
As she turned later into her neighbour’s driveway, Belle thought that someone was visiting. By the house sat a gigantic General Motors van loaded like a dowager empress. Her nose pressed against the tinted windows. Leather seats. Keyless entry. Power everything. Yet where was the Geo? A firm knock on the back door brought no answer, and she was inhaling the redolent attar from a wild rose bush when she heard a scuffling. The dogs were peering timidly from behind the shed instead of clamouring for attention. Perhaps Anni had given them a two-by-four lesson. They weren’t even decent protectors, not a mean bone in their silly bodies. Anyone could cart off the last stick of furniture by wiggling a slice of bologna. Wouldn’t work with a shepherd, bred for healthy suspicion and territoriality.
She rapped again, then tried the door and found it open. “Hello? It’s Belle.” Not a sound. On a hunch, she paced the grounds in case the woman was puttering somewhere. On a boat ride? Anni’s small outboard often trolled down the lake on a windless morning, but the dogs always sat in the bow. Back at the door again, canine panting loud in the silence, Belle tried to shake off a growing uneasiness.
Best to leave the perishable gift safely inside on the counter. She tiptoed into the kitchen, resorting to the silly phrase, “Are you decent? I have something for you.” At each step she stopped and listened, hearing only the ticking of a clock and the hum of the refrigerator. Placing the berries by the sink, she glanced toward the living room. In the doorway was a foot. A foot in a beaded moccasin, then another, followed by legs, torso, arms and head, the conventional arrangement. On the glowing pine floor, her friend lay on her stomach. Dressed in cotton pants and a man’s striped shirt, she might have been sleeping
