on one and accidentally ground a few others into the hard maple flooring. This was obviously not one of my good nights. The sooner I retreated to bed, the better.
After ensuring the doors were locked and the lights on, I started towards the bedroom. Then I remembered the object, which had escaped from the frame. I searched the hearth, where I thought it had landed, but found nothing. Nor did I find it on the floor. Deciding it was just a piece of backing that had become unstuck, I gave up and went to bed.
TEN
Next morning, I woke up to a hundred woodpeckers pounding my head, while my mouth tasted as if it had become the pit of Aunt Aggie’s old privy. I gingerly raised one heavy eyelid and snapped it shut when the morning sun flooded in. I was disgusted with myself. I’d given in. After lying wide-eyed awake for an hour the night before, jumping at every squeak and rustle, I’d run to my tonic and poured myself a hefty glassful, in fact several. At least, the vodka had done its job. It had put me to sleep, a state I’d just as soon return to right now.
Why not? I had nothing planned for the morning. Eric and I weren’t going to Whispers Island until the afternoon. I rolled over and groaned. Not only was my head pounding, but my body, after yesterday’s encounter, felt as if a herd of caribou had trampled me.
However, within seconds I was sitting up, staring at my clock. I’d forgotten Marie. Seven o’clock. If I didn’t go now, I wouldn’t find out what she wanted until the end of the day.
So once again I found myself bumping along the dusty tree-lined road to Marie’s homestead. This time I drove more slowly, and not just with the interests of my truck in mind. The last thing my head or body needed was more pounding.
And once again, the pile of wood in the middle of her lane prevented me from driving right to her cabin. I climbed out of my truck and walked along the strip of gravel between the logs and the bordering trees. On the other side of the wood pile, the sun was starting to melt a veneer of frost that coated each roughly sawed log. Flies, sparked by the warmth, buzzed in and out of the gaps. They swirled up as my shadow passed over, then settled back down again.
I was amazed that Louis would be cutting firewood this late in the season. Even I, the city slicker, knew freshly cut wood required a summer to dry out, otherwise it would produce more smoke than heat. I supposed this only confirmed Eric’s low opinion of Louis. Just as leaving the wood in the middle of the road did.
According to Eric—for Marie would never tell me—Louis wasn’t up to much. Other than tending his traplines in the bush or taking on the odd job as a hunting guide, Louis spent most of his time collapsed on the sofa with a bottle of piquette, the Quebecois version of moonshine. He preferred to live off the money Marie earned as a housekeeper or the benefits she could receive as a registered band member. Although Louis appeared to have some Indian blood, he wasn’t registered as one, and therefore was not entitled to band-specific social assistance.
Eric acknowledged that she had at least had the smarts not to give up her status by marrying Louis. And even though the Indian Act had subsequently changed, she still hadn’t married him. On the other hand, Eric couldn’t understand why she stuck with him. Unfortunately, I could. I knew too well the vice-grip of a love-hate relation with a man who worked on all your insecurities to keep you grovelling at his feet.
The front yard looked as if it suffered from the same lack of energy. That is, if you could call it a yard. It was really just a patch of dried weeds and dirt that had been hacked out of the surrounding bush. The rusted remains of several cars and a snowmobile were scattered amongst rotting tree stumps. At the far end, a canvas canoe with a gaping hole in its side was propped against a battered oil drum.
Underneath the front windows of her log cabin, Marie had created a small strip of garden with the daisies and phlox I’d given her. I remembered the sparkle of life it had provided in the summer. Now it was faded to a few scraggly blooms and shrivelled stems that rustled in the faint autumn breeze.
As I silently approached, the small, square cabin stared back at me, equally silent. No smoke rose from the blackened chimney. Under the weight of its rust-streaked metal roof, the cabin carried a look of defeat. Strips of bark were peeling from the cedar log walls. Not a single speck of paint graced the weathered exterior. But a spark of defiance at this surrender seemed to leap out from the two front windows that shimmered with a reflected sheen that only came from frequent polishing. Marie wasn’t going to give in.
Not wanting to get splinters from the door’s rough wood, I knocked on its small pane of glass. I peered through the tiny window, expecting to see Marie’s surprised face, and saw only a dark empty room. I knocked again and called out. I turned the doorknob and found it locked.
I was surprised she wasn’t home. It couldn’t be much beyond seven-thirty, a full hour before she usually left for work. I knocked again, but the empty silence continued. I began to wonder if she’d spent the night elsewhere.
I peered through the front windows. The room looked much as it always did, empty but for a few items of basic furniture; a threadbare sofa, three spindly metal chairs and an Arborite table. In the corner stood an ancient television set. Since Louis had never gotten around to having the electricity hooked up, it served no purpose other than as a place to display family photos. In the opposite corner, the wood stove looked cold and forlorn.
The room may not have offered much comfort, but it was immaculate in the same way as the windows were immaculate. I didn’t expect any less from Marie. But it was too clean. There was no empty coffee cup, no sweater draped over a chair. There was nothing to suggest that Marie had been here earlier this morning.
“What are you doing here?” spoke a voice suddenly from behind me. I jerked around to see Tommy walking up the drive. Feeling like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar, I backed away from the window.
“I’m looking for your mother,” I replied.
“What for? She’s at work.” He looked at me suspiciously, through those startling blue eyes that I could never quite reconcile with the rest of his dark features. For Marie’s sake, I hoped that was all he’d inherited from his father.
He was dressed in a dark suit with a white shirt and very bland tie. He reached up and pulled hard on the knot to loosen the stricture around his neck. His body seemed tense, as if unused to such conforming attire. I imagined it wasn’t. A recent law school grad, he probably preferred the pro forma uniform of jeans and sweatshirt.
“Was she here last night?” I asked.
“I assume so, but I’ve been away. Just getting back now.” He unlocked the door, swung it open and stepped inside, sports bag in hand.
Not sure if I should follow, I waited on the doorstep. I didn’t feel the warmth of an occupied house or smell the smoke of a recent fire.
“I don’t think she stayed here last night,” I shouted to his retreating back.
“You’d better come here,” answered his voice from another room in a tone that only intensified my concern.
“Where are you?” I called out.
“In the kitchen.”
He was lighting the kerosene lamp as I entered.
“Look.” He held the lamp high to light up the dark room.
My heart sank at the sight of cupboard doors gaping open, dishes scattered on the counter, drawers
