of his slippers, and hoisted him, one arm around his shoulders, once so strong and muscular. The effort was costing him, his breathing heavy, but he rattled on. “Told Henry here that my grandfather went down and fought to free his people in the Civil War.”
Henry nodded as if he had heard the story 1002 times, and Belle sent apologies through her eyes. She’d seen the tombstone in Prospect Cemetery in Toronto and had always wondered what prompted Reuben Palmer to join the 22nd New York Cavalry. Wounded in the heel, spawning a family joke about his direction, eventually he predeceased his wife, leaving her with a U.S. service pension.
Driving home from work later, she realized that she’d managed to forget about Bea for a moment. What about this delivery man? No leads all this time, and then suddenly . . . She supposed that the police worked methodically, careful not to rush to judgement and jeopardize the case, bringing charges only when a conviction was likely. The law was like a tapestry, messy behind, but when everything worked, sheer artistry on the other side. Certainly Micro and Dave deserved to have this tragedy put to rest as fast as possible. She pulled out to pass a double slurry truck and winced as a piece of gravel bounced off her windshield. Auto-glass companies did big business in the Nickel Capital.
Turning into her drive at last at the Parliament of Owls sign with her totems, the furious brown Horny and the mild white Corny with their marble eyes, she noticed the long grass on the septic bed. Once more into the lawnmower breach, fall or no fall. As she exited the car too quickly, she felt a slight twinge of back pain. Since wrenching it last year, she’d been more judicious about overextending herself.
On her answering machine, she found a dinner invitation from Hélène and put the box of Kraft Dinner back into her former Millennium supply closet, now used for hydro outages. In full recovery mode, her friend sounded cheerful and animated. Ed didn’t wear his emotions on his sleeve, but the old bear was as solid as her rockwall.
She changed into jeans and a light blue denim shirt, collected Freya and hiked down the road for long-overdue exercise. The fall wildflowers were staging a brave show. Pale lilac asters nodded acquaintance, and downy fluffs of fireweed lifted into the wind, triggering Freya’s prey drive. Two kinds of goldenrod captured Belle’s eye, one with a simple plume and one elm-branched. Over thirty varieties, according to her Peterson guide. She was tempted to pick a few pearly everlastings to make a dried bunch, but stopped as the season’s final tent caterpillar, Born-too-Late, inched across the road. “Gotcha!” She mashed it without remorse, as did most people. The birches, aspens and poplars had barely recovered from the last infestation.
At their gate, she saw Rusty barking and running in the yard as a small boy tossed a tennis ball for the eager dog. Primed for a game, Freya streaked in to snatch the throw from Rusty’s chubby efforts. The boy stepped back, raising his hands, assessing the eighty-pound shepherd. Then he knelt and let Freya lick his face while he scratched her ears. His café au lait face, with fine features and long lashes, was serious, but his eye contact with the dog was as sweet as the ice wine Belle reserved for special guests.
“Hi,” Belle said, giving Rusty a pat so that she didn’t feel left out. “Are you Mich—”
“Micro,” he said as he rose, head proud and spine straight, a defensive cast to his jaw. She could swear he stood on tiptoe in his red basketball shoes. He wore baggy jeans with carpenter’s loops and a Sudbury Wolves sweatshirt. The jeans sagged so much that in another inch his bum top would appear. Kids and clothes. Pass the Xanax. Make that a double.
She introduced herself and was pleased that he shook her hand firmly. Climbing to the porch, she noticed an upscale Santa Cruz mountain bike with sleek lines and a hi-tech alloy frame leaning against the steps. Inside the foyer, she slipped off her shoes, precise Canadian behaviour that would make a good clue in a murder case. Was that all she could think about? But seeing Micro, with his mother’s wide green eyes, made the poignant connection. She remembered the picture of his father with the same diminutive build.
Belle helped Hélène set the table. “He’s cute. Polite, too,” she said, pointing outside. “How’s he taking his mom’s loss?”
Hélène made a gesture of disbelief with her hands. “I’ve never seen him cry. It’s as if he’s acting in a play, like it’s not real. First his father and sister. Now this. Too much for one boy.”
“Is he staying with you?”
“Dave and I thought it was a good idea, so he dropped off Micro yesterday. Dave will be travelling in the Maritimes for the next few weeks. Commitments he couldn’t cancel. The boy needs a woman’s touch, he said.” Her lip trembled, but she firmed her mouth and turned to reach for a pot bubbling on the stove. “Staying around that place with a housekeeper might give him nightmares. He brought his school books, clothes and some computer games.”
“Getting along okay, then . . . all things considered?”
“Too soon to say, but he’ll probably get pretty bored. No young people down this end of the road. There’s a computer in the spare room where he bunks. He likes some kind of Internet role-playing game.” She smiled softly. “It’s different raising a child these days. I keep telling him to pull up those pants. Honestly.”
“I’ve got a few computer games he could play, and on my hikes, he’s welcome. If you need a break, give me a call.”
As the boy came in, Hélène asked him to wash his hands, and with a muttered “Sheesh,” he ambled down the hall. His aunt lowered her voice. “He resented Dave from the get-go, though the poor man tried his best. The computer he bought Micro cost the earth, not to mention the bike. Six years alone with Bea had made him the man of the house.”
“Sounds normal. Dave and Bea were married for only . . .”
“Less than a year. But by now you’d think . . .” She broke off her conversation to remind a returning Micro to pour himself a milk.
They sat down to Hélène’s redoubtable pot roast, simmered in Chianti. Bowls of garlic mashed potatoes, then a succulent mixture of roasted root vegetables from the garden, including a sweet parsnip, arrived from the grill outside. Belle noticed that Micro helped himself to large portions of everything but meat, even the rutabaga, a preposterous but nourishing turnip which had likely been the mainstay of her forebears in 1845 Bowmanville.
After assuring herself that everyone had mounded plates, Hélène said grace. Then she cleared her throat. “Micro’s a . . . what is it, dear?”
He forked up the potatoes. “A vegan, Aunt Hélène.”
Another side to this intriguing boy. Belle asked, “Lacto, ovo, what kind?”
“I’m breaking myself in, but fish, eggs and milk products are okay.” His intelligent eyes fixed on her. “Kids need calcium. But as for meat, have you read Fast Food Nation? Do you realize that . . .”
As her throat constricted, he named perils of undercooked or suspect flesh, including CJD, cancer in chickens and e-coli. Finally Ed tapped the boy’s plate with his knife and grunted. “You’re putting me off my meal, sonnie, and that’s a no-no in this house. At my age, I don’t have many pleasures as reliable as my wife’s fine cooking.”
Hélène frowned at the mixed message, but Belle found herself warming to the boy as talk turned to the Jays’ resigning of a twenty-two-game winner, the only bright spot in a .500 season. “They won the Series? Unreal,” Micro said. “Gotta be before I was born. Bet my Dad saw it, though.” No question who Dad was.
An awkward
