it. A whole week off in the summer for a Kuskawa cop was a big thing. Maybe he thought I’d be jealous of his son or something. It’s not as if we were living in each other’s pockets. We went out for dinner or a movie about once every two weeks or so, that was all. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d called his home number. He usually called from his cell phone or from the cop shop. “So you up for it?” he said.
“Of course. It sounds like fun,” I said, although I had a sudden urge to run away, fast. Meet my kid. Engage. Yikes. What if the child hated me? What if he resented my relationship with his Dad and cast me in the role of the evil stepmother? What, oh God, what if he really liked me and wanted me to marry his Dad?
“Do you mind if I bring the dogs?”
“I was counting on it.”
“Great. Can I bring anything else?”
“Nope. I got it covered. We’ll come and get you around eleven-thirty, that sound okay?”
“I’ll see you then,” I said. As I had predicted, Susan came into the kitchen and stopped when she saw me on the phone. Becker had hung up, but I continued to speak into the mouthpiece. “. . . and I think they may be stockpiling weapons, Dave,” I said. “Could be they’re planning to blow up the building. I’d be calling the cops before it’s too late. Right. See ya.” I put the phone back, smiled sweetly at Aunt Susan and headed out into the night.
Five
We have everything you’ll need for dogs and cats—from treats to feed. Your furry friends will wag their tails to see our Kountry Pantree sales!
—A jingle on MEGA FM, Laingford’s radio station
BUSINESSMAN CLAIMS NEW STORE ON BURIAL GROUND
by Calvin Grigsby, Staff reporter
Laingford businessman Archibald Watson believes that the Kountry Pantree superstore, currently being constructed at the corner of Main Street and Hwy 24, is desecrating an ancient native burial ground.
Watson, who was born and grew up in the area, told the Gazette last week that Indian artifacts had been found in the meadow overlooking Lake Kimowan. The site, soon to open as a $2.4 million shopping complex, is, according to Watson, sacred land.
“My brother found a couple of bones there once, and I found an Indian arrowhead,” he said last week. “We should get the Ministry of Indian Affairs or maybe the Heritage people to look into it.”
Watson, whose family immigrated to Canada from England in 1867, said that the Indian contribution to early life in Laingford should be recognized and preserved, not desecrated with a shopping mall.
“I know we kicked them out and everything,” he said, “but we could at least respect their cemeteries, eh?”
Contacted at the Mohawk reserve in Goose River, south of Sikwan, Chief Pauline Joseph said that her ancestors regarded the Laingford area as a canoe route only. The meadow site in Laingford would never have been used to bury their dead. “It would be like having a funeral for your mom at a highway rest stop,” she said.
Watson is the owner of Watson’s General Store, a grocery and butcher shop on Main Street.
“He said it was just a passing comment,” Susan told me. “He thinks Grigsby was out to make him look bad.” We were having coffee on the farm house porch as I waited for the arrival of Becker and his son.
“Well, the article certainly does that. Ancient burial grounds? Grasping at straws, wasn’t he?”
“Archie has promised not to speak to the press again without consulting us first,” Susan said. “And Grigsby did rather take Archie’s words out of context. They were talking about the meadow, and how the children in the community used to play there.”
“That’s sad,” I said. We sipped our coffee in silence, and I lit a cigarette—probably my last one of the day, as I didn’t want to smoke in front of the kid.
“Polly, about last evening,” Susan said.
“I wasn’t really on the phone to David Kane,” I said.
“I know. You were just making a point, and I understand why. I just wanted to apologize for pressuring you to come in the first place.”
“That’s okay. I should have said no, anyway. Next time I’ll declare a conflict of interest,” I said. “You could have found out who was on the committee quite easily somewhere else. Or you could have asked me earlier. It was the public grilling I didn’t like.”
“Quite so. I got carried away, I think. Anyway, Emma said afterwards that she hopes you might drop in on her some time. She has something she wants to give you.”
“Did you know she and Mom used to be friends?” I said.
“Well, business associates really, Polly. Your mother was very choosy about her friends.”
“You mean she didn’t have any,” I said.
“Oh, she did, you know. Your father, for one.”
“Right. And God. Very close friends with God, I seem to recall.”
Susan nodded, gazing out across the fields. My parents had been what you might call “muscular Christians”, my mother from a fervent Irish Catholic background and my Dad an evangelical Baptist. When I was born, he’d agreed to convert to Catholicism for my sake. That particular combination of religious traditions had seethed and boiled and coughed up a household that had been zealous in the extreme. God, as they say, ruled. Or at least my parents’ interpretation of God did. After they died and Aunt Susan took me in, she told me that I could choose to attend church if I wanted to, but she wouldn’t be coming along. I never returned.
Luggy, who had been splayed full length in the sun, catching some morning rays, suddenly sat up and wuffed. Rosie, ever his shadow, copied him. She was just learning to bark, little cartoon yips that were only endearing for the first couple of seconds. Moments later, Becker’s black Jeep Cherokee crested the hill and started down the long driveway into George’s valley.
“I’ll see you later, Polly. Have fun,” Susan said and left the scene, perhaps not wanting to be perceived as a chaperone.
You’d think that at age mid-thirty-something I would have moved past the sweaty palm stage in my dating career. After all, it was only a hike, and it wasn’t as if Becker and I were strangers. I squinted at the approaching Jeep and made out a small head in the passenger seat: the boy, Bryan. I realized that my nervousness was linked to Mark Becker the father, a person whom I hadn’t really met. There would be a triangular element to our outing that hadn’t been there before. Neither Becker’s son nor I would get his undivided attention, and we would not be able to give him ours. It would be a three-way thing, a dance, with each of us learning the steps for our respective roles of parent, child and romantically involved other adult. I’m a terrible dancer.
The Jeep parked and the dogs did a Hello frolic as the doors opened.
“Morning!” I called. The boy immediately got
