on Echo Lake, but even Eric Odjik, Band Chief of the Migiskan and operator of the Forgotten Bay Fishing Camp, never had more than four or five boats on the lake at the same time. “Spoils the image,” he’d say in that soft, measured drawl of his. “Our customers want to feel they’ve got this wilderness all to themselves, they don’t want to be staring eyeball to eyeball.” So Eric trucks the overflow fishermen to other lakes scattered throughout the thirty-five square miles of the Migiskan Reserve.
And fishermen didn’t tramp over land looking for fish. In fact, nobody tramped over Whispers Island.
A year ago, shortly after I’d moved in, I’d watched Eric’s silver boat skim across the water to kick out some campers who’d pitched their tent on the same spit of land where the Fishing Camp boats were now laid out in military precision. It had been a warm Indian Summer day, like today. The small sandy beach, with its silver birches and overarching pine, was a perfect spot for camping. Eric hadn’t cared. He soon had the couple back in their canoe searching for another location. A difficult task, since the entire northern shore of Echo Lake belonged to the Migiskan Reserve.
I’d watched through my binoculars to see what this forlorn looking couple would do. When it looked as if they were paddling my way, to one of the few beaches on the Three Deer Point shoreline, I’d decided I would play Bob Cratchit to Eric’s Scrooge and let them camp. They’d veered left instead and had landed on the only land where they wouldn’t need to ask permission, the uninhabited crown-owned shore to the south of the island.
Now these men, who looked considerably more threatening than a couple of campers, were wandering all over the rocks of Whispers Island, obviously with Eric’s full permission. I sure hoped he wasn’t planning on expanding his Fishing Camp operation. He often said the island would be a perfect spot for a resort, like one of those condo/resort combinations which were consuming the Laurentians to the south. But he always said it with a glint in his eye which made me think he only wanted to pull my chain, which he invariably did.
I didn’t mind his Fishing Camp, out-of-sight at the far end of neighbouring Forgotten Bay. In fact, I often dropped by when seeking more voluble company than my own. With its limited number of rooms, there were never enough people to erode the stillness I’d come to treasure. However, a full-blown lodge with hundreds of rooms within full view and hearing of my cottage would be a disaster. As far as I was concerned, I’d left the teeming masses behind when I fled Toronto. I didn’t want them back.
Deciding now was the time to start voicing my opposition before plans moved too far along, I phoned him. However, he wasn’t at the Fishing Camp nor at the band council hall. I left a voice message.
I’d no sooner hung up when the phone rang. Convinced it was Eric, who’d listened in while I was leaving my message, I answered, “Eric Odjik, you’d better keep your grubby paws off Whispers Island.”
“Eric? Eric who?”
“Hey, wait a minute. Who’s this?” I was confused. This wasn’t Eric, but the voice was familiar, too familiar.
“You mean you’ve forgotten me already? Who’s this Eric guy?”
And then, with slow creeping dread, I realized who it was. How could I fail to recognize the deep timbre of a voice which once had the power to send a tingle of pleasure up my spine and now brought only dread?
Gareth.
“Ah . . . hi,” I said. The first words I’d spoken to him since we’d sat with our lawyers more than a lifetime ago.
“I hope you don’t mind my calling out of the blue like this?”
I mumbled something, as I desperately tried to control my spiking nerves.
“I see it didn’t take you long to replace me,” he said.
“What do you want?”
“Can’t a man call up his former wife and say hello?”
“Look Gareth, you never did anything without wanting something in return. Now tell me what you want.”
“To say how much I’ve missed you.”
“Those words don’t work on me any more. I’ve got nothing to say to you.”
I slammed the phone down so hard that it almost collapsed the fragile antique table. My hand shook.
The phone began ringing before I’d reached Aunt Aggie’s rocker. I sat down, drained the remains of the vodka and rocked back and forth.
Damn Gareth, why did he have to re-enter my life just when I finally had him out of it?
After four rings, the phone stopped when the message system swung into action. Five minutes later, the phone rang again. I ignored it. It stopped after four rings. I rocked back and forth and tried to focus my thoughts on the men on the island.
Why now, after three years of silence?
The phone rang again. Gareth was never one to admit defeat. One of the reasons why I invariably gave in. That and other reasons. The ringing stopped. I rocked and waited for it to resume. It didn’t. The tension eased from my grip on the arms of the rocker.
Maybe one of these calls was from Eric? I returned to the living room to check the messages.
“Megs, I’d like to talk to you.”
Megs. It had been a long time since Gareth had called me that.
“I’ll call one more time. If you don’t answer, I won’t bother you again. Megs, I’ve missed you.”
It was the “Megs”. It used to make me feel sort of squishy inside.
The phone rang again. I hesitated. It rang twice. I wasn’t sure. A third time. Gathering up my courage, I grabbed it before the end of the fourth ring.
“You’ve got to the count of ten to tell me why you’re calling, otherwise I hang up,” I said, with more bravado than I felt.
“Christ, give a man a chance.”
“Two.”
“Okay. I want to see you.”
“Four.”
“My life’s empty without you.”
“What about Janice?”
“You know you’re the only woman who’s ever meant anything to me.”
“Still counting,” I replied. “Seven.”
“Christ, what do you want me to say?”
“You tell me.”
“I’m sorry, Megs. Is that what you want to hear? I was never sorrier than the day the divorce went through.”
“You haven’t told me what happened to Janice?”
“I got rid of her.”
“Fine.” I walked back to the verandah, the portable phone clamped to my ear. “But what’s it got to do with me?”
