regular life send me off to other planets!” Good grief! I am blushing madly, thinking of roses. Why can’t I just shut up? I’m becoming one of those unfortunate people who can’t stop talking, the kind other people roll their eyes about and invent boiling kettles for after five minutes on the phone.
“Good work, Mercy. Plateaus, eh? That fits. Now, the water.”
Just the facts ma’am. Button up except for the facts. “Muddy, full of floating debris, big hunks of ice, all sorts of trees, evergreens, poplars. Very strong current. It’s...”
“Yes?” asks Norman.
“Odd. That’s what it is. The tree keeps getting sucked out by the current and swung around a lot, and it rolls a lot, but...the current isn’t right somehow. Up ahead, now I remember, up ahead the water is coming in big rolling waves and there are whitecaps and all that deadhead junk in the water. It’s no place to be is what I’m trying to say. Yet the log is moving forward to meet this wall of waves. The current is going in two directions! I’m not even going to try and think my way through this lot! You go figure!”
“Very interesting, this is a new one. Good work. Now, the people, please.”
“Okay,” I say, feeling back on track again. “The man in the maroon truck has on a workshirt, a shade of muted green. Some men wear pants the same colour? Hard-wearing cloth. Lots of farmers wear that kind. Anyway, he’s slumped over the wheel, one arm is slung over the wheel and his head must be near the window. I can’t see his face. It’s an immaculate old truck with those big curving fenders and a silver grill. I like that old-fashioned maroon colour but I’m no expert on makes and models, sorry.”
“No problem. And the others, the police with the binoculars?”
“Too far away to get a better description. I saw the flash of the sun on the glass first. They were passing the binoculars back and forth. I wish I could say more but there you have it.”
“And the end of it? Can you go a little further?”
“The end. Well. I’m looking at my copy here and all I get is the feeling of a stupid mistake, the knees betraying the body, the truly sickening feeling of something solid giving out from underfoot, the biting coldness of the water. The blackness is similar to fainting. And then I hit my head.”
“You don’t have that here! You hit your head?” Norman sounds pleased again.
“I mean to say, the nasty little movie ended and I came to on my deck, denting my skull on my teapot and then I tripped.” I need to stop talking like this. The Canadian Bureau of Premonitions is not interested in my clumsiness, in the line of duty or not.
“But, Mercy, your head is okay?”
“Yes. I have a dent and a sore spot and a bluish line across my forehead but I’ll survive. Now, you’ll let me know if anything comes of this?”
“Surely. Aha, something else is coming in! Whiskey Jack. He’s another live one. Better go. Thanks again for all of this. I’ll be in touch. Bye.”
And then Norman’s gone, the line is dead and I’ve had my thrill for the day.
don’t be silly! the world is your oyster
if you don’t hide under your shell yo u know
“Aunt Ginger, come right out wherever you are! Don’t take potshots at me. It’s not fair!”
I am shaking with fear and trying for a determined, angry effect now, ready to have it out with that ancient flapper, that octogenarian black sheep.
And there she sits on the burgundy divan. Dyed black bob, hooded green eyes with Rudolph Valentino makeup, the silk teal-green dance dress we cremated her in. She crosses the famous legs and lights a lean brown cigarillo. And smiles her most winning smile. I must have bitten my tongue when I fainted.
Four
Sadie Brown licks my face and whimpers and nudges at me. I am on the Persian carpet, the one some prince gave to you-know-who after seeing her dance in some tent in the Moroccan desert. I now have the opportunity to study the pattern closely and I find it pleasing to the eye. Little lions and fish and birds. Gold and turquoise and a deep, dark red.
“I’m okay, S.B.,” I manage, finally.
The phone rings and I am momentarily confused as the ringing in my ears competes for attention. I stick out my tongue and touch the bitten part with my finger. My elbows must have taken the brunt of this tumble because they are fiery with pain. I can’t take much more of this. I get up on my hands and knees and trundle over to the phone while S.B. howls pitifully.
“Stop it! It’s the phone!” I say this to her every time the phone rings more than twice and I’ve been saying this for nine years to no avail.
“Hello?” I say in a rickety voice I barely recognize.
“May I speak with Mercy Brown please?” A brisk, pleasant-sounding woman’s voice.
“This is she,” I say, automatically reaching for my pen and notepad and discreetly clearing my throat.
“Lona Garrison of Great Northwest Expeditions here. I’m replacing Bronwen Williams who’s on leave for three months. She suggested I get in touch with you about a feature issue for the magazine. It’s about the Alaska Highway, Dawson Creek to Fairbanks, which we’d like to send you up to cover.”
“Well, that sounds interesting! What’s the deadline?” I try to sound brisk and pleasant myself. I feel like whooping with unrestrained glee!
“First of August. Can you manage that? We’d want you to drive down from Fairbanks to Dawson Creek and to take the BC Ferries boat up, connecting with an Alaska State Ferry in Prince Rupert, docking in Haines, Alaska. We booked passage a year ago, so it’s confirmed from Port Hardy for June first.”
“Sounds fine!” I chirp. “It’s been a while since I hit the road for a good, long stretch. I’m looking forward to going up that far north. I’ve only been up as far as Prince Rupert.”
“Good to hear. You’ll recall our Spring issue was entirely devoted to the anniversary of the building of the Alaska Highway. It generated so much interest that we decided to follow up with more northern feature issues. So, we’d like you to give us a variety of human settlements, from isolated cabins to the big cities, any wild river stories you can deliver and...oh, okay, Ed wants me to tell you he really likes the hot springs article you just filed and he says there are some nifty hot springs up there too. Does this resemble hard work yet?” She sounds nice. I’m glad they have somebody good to fill Bronwen’s shoes.
“It sounds like the ideal assignment, thank you very much!”
“Thank you for taking this on, Mercy. We know you’ll do a great job. ‘A fine photojournalist in one energetic package’ is how Bronwen described you! I’ll send your press pass, the contract and supporting materials by courier today. Feel free to call us, if you have any questions at all. Bye now.”
I must remember to thank Bronwen for recommending me for this. Heck, I’ll wire her some flowers. This is big-time for me. Great Northwest Expeditions pays just one
