vanish one by one, his expectations dropping with his capacities. Still, if his world had shrunk to food and media, he was in the same boat as 90 percent of North America. And the spunk that had banished him from the dining room made her applaud; when he lost the spark to roar out demands, his life would fade to a guttering candle.
He might not have been the intellectual giant her mother had wanted in a husband, but he had been a loving, kind and indulgent father, had rolled out a motorbike with a red ribbon on the handlebars when Belle entered university, and had slipped her money to travel to England. And as a booker, he had passed on his love of films. How many other ten-year-olds had white mice named Errol and Bette, or a pet squirrel named Clara Bow? As soon as she could walk, he had taken her twice weekly to the private screening room at his office to watch new releases, “every film ever made,” he told everyone later at Rainbow. Once the warm weather came, Belle hoped to take him out, wheelchair and all, to one of the blockbuster movies, or maybe even the impressive new IMAX theatre.
On the drive home, listening to CBC radio relate the eternal scuffles of the world, Belle dithered over dinner options. An ice storm had hit the area that afternoon, so she was pleased to see the sander in front of her until a sudden dirty spurt hit her car. “Whoa, all right! I’m backing off,” she said, remembering the price of her last paint job.
When she pulled into her yard and shut off the engine, she heard throughout the woods, a delicate symphony, the clear glaze on the tree branches tinkling onto the ground like broken chandelier crystals as the rising evening winds shifted course. Belle paused for a moment and tuned her ears to the delicate orchestration, a rare combination of sound, sight and texture. She reached toward a drooping willow twig, its soft gray pussies wrapped in a coat of ice melting under her hand as fast as it had formed. Back to reality, she sighed, knowing that she’d never get out of the driveway until she laced it liberally with stove ashes and sand.
Happy to be free, Freya chased a tennis ball around the parking area, dropping it into the snowbank at intervals and pawing it out in self-amusement. Meanwhile, her shoulders to the wind, Belle flung handfuls of grit from her bucket onto the icy drive.
A Thai dinner went into the microwave. Not bad for four dollars, but lemongrass mated evilly with chilies, reminiscent of bath powder. The oaky tang of Australian semillon helped cut the edge. Until just a few years ago, steak, pasta or Chinese had dominated the local culinary scene, but recently gourmet coffee, goat cheese and radicchio had made an appearance, and the largest supermarket, a giant which provided maps and carts the size of Alberta, had even installed an olive bar with eight varieties plus artichoke hearts and sun-dried tomatoes.
Freya got four cups of “Mature Dog” Purina, high in fibre. “I must be cruel, only to be kind,” Belle whispered as the last cup dinged into the bowl. “You know you lard it on over the winter, and I don’t want to be responsible for hip dysplasia.” The dog seemed to be counting, patiently expecting the usual five. Only when Belle turned did she grudgingly bury her nose in the bowl.
Belle took her decaf to the computer room. On the classic film forum, Dietrich’s daughter’s biography was raising hackles, her graphic descriptions of the old woman’s final deterioration condemned as “ghoulish.” Someone else wondered what had ever happened to Zasu Pitts and was surprised to find that the silent star had enjoyed a television career in My Little Margie, her zany lopsided grin ever marketable. One of these days I really should stop lurking, Belle said to herself, and get involved in this so-called information highway.
Mutual funds had the next round of home pages. As a recent ruthless capitalist in charge of her father’s mutual funds, Belle combed the financial quotations, urging the TSE to retake its position above the DOW. “Try our International Money Market Fund,” a local funds manager in a wheelchair, the very soul of trustworthiness, had advised, shoving a colourful brochure across the desk.
“At 3 percent this year? Sounds like a loser. Why should I invest in this?”
He had beamed and puffed on an imaginary cigar like a tycoon. “As a hedge, what else? Diversify. The Danish krone has appreciated by 29 percent this year.” Was he really licking his lips? “You see, if the dollar drops big-time, you’ll make plenty! An ill wind that doesn’t blow some good and all that.” That had been the last straw, to invest in the financial collapse of the country. The bank probably had a fund that would rocket only if Quebec separated, or British Columbia joined the U.S.
Slipping a tape into the VCR, Belle kicked back in the blue velvet recliner with a glass of Rebel Yell, bought at discount at the liquor store. That intriguing corn tang of a sunny Tennessee hayfield might someday burrow into the hearts of the rye lovers, but it was an acquired taste. Susan Lenox, Her Fall and Rise came on with a clean-shaven Gable as an engineer and Garbo on the run from a leering Alan Hale. How could anyone communicate so well using just the clavicles?
As she switched off the lights in the television room, a gentle hooting of barred owls greeted her from the backyard. She had heard their calls her first spring night in the house and had named the property after them, as a varnished sign at the driveway proclaimed: The Parliament of Owls. They returned in March to lay their eggs, risking sudden spring storms that could freeze them on their nests. Nature’s amorality cut deep for animals as well as people.
FIVE
Meg’s jar of gooseberry jam on the kitchen table the next morning reminded Belle of Melanie’s invitation. She was curious about the girl Jim had taken into his heart and to his treasured places among the woods and streams.
Skipping breakfast and putting the jar out of sight, Belle was down the road by 7:15. The morning was cloudy and dark, the huge snowbanks an eerie source of reflected light. As Belle rounded a corner, her hands tightened on the wheel and she reached for the brake. A black, demonic shape seemed to be flying across the road four feet from the ground, its neon blue eyes trapped in her headlights. She heard no thump as the van moved slowly, now joined by a scrabbling form alongside, all jerky legs and lolling tongue. It was Buddy, a very fat young black Lab at his favourite game. Had he actually been flying or simply moving uphill from the vehicle in an optical illusion? She stopped, rolled down the window, and called him over. “Hi, Budman. Now get home, and I mean it.” There wasn’t a brain in the dog’s head, nor a mean bone in his body. His owners should take better care of him, she thought. Bored dogs made their own entertainment; sometimes it was costly, sometimes dangerous. One more bite at a wheel might be his last.
Tim Horton’s was Canada’s premier doughnut shop in a country with five times more per capita than Big Brother down south. No surprise that beleaguered Canuckleheads chose a quick sugar and caffeine fix to escape briefly from the arctic temperatures. Tim’s number 1000 had opened, and the prosperous chain was branching into sandwiches, soup, pies, cakes and cookies along with the reliable 25 different doughnut varieties available any hour of the day. Even the bathrooms would rate a nod from Martha Stewart. Belle sipped at her mug and checked the mutual fund reports in the Toronto Star, relieved not to have taken a flyer into the South American markets.
She lifted the paper periodically to check for Melanie, until she spotted a strange, medieval apparition in the crowd. A red wizard hat, made of soft fleece, cupped the head and ended with a tassel two feet down the back. Harry Potter’s choice was worn by a strawberry blonde woman, shoulders bowed over a pile of books. Belle motioned her over, noticing that her eyes were swollen and tired as if she had been up most of the night. The girl’s hand trembled as she took Belle’s, but her grip was firm.
“Melanie? You look like you could use a coffee.” In response to a nod, Belle brought back two mugs and matching giant carrot muffins and resisted the impulse to tuck a serviette under the quivering chin. Was the girl going to cry right there during rush hour?
Melanie brightened
