around the school while your mother fills out the forms. I think you’ll find our facilities excellent despite the fact we’re a small school.’
Mr Enright, a plump young man bearing an uncanny resemblance to Winnie the Pooh, appeared in the doorway. ‘Pleased to meet you, Morgan,’ he said, shaking her hand. ‘If you come with me, we’ll start with the art room. It’s my kingdom.’
After a nervous glance at her mother, Morgan followed her guide.
‘Now,’ said Mrs Beneteau, sitting down behind her desk, ‘let’s get the paperwork done and then we can have a chat. I like to get to know my students’ parents.’ She motioned Catherine to a chair. ‘It’s too bad Morgan’s father couldn’t come with you.’
That too familiar constriction formed in Catherine’s breast but she ignored it. ‘He had to stay in Kingsport,’ she replied without elaborating.
Mrs Beneteau couldn’t miss her visitor’s tension. ‘Are you and Mr Edison divorced?’
‘In the process,’ Catherine said repressively. ‘Morgan doesn’t like to talk about her father at the moment.’
‘I see,’ said Mrs Beneteau in a voice which implied disbelief. Catherine knew the woman thought it was she who didn’t want to talk about him, not Morgan. She didn’t defend herself, turning instead to fill in the questionnaire in front of her.
‘We’ve received Morgan’s records from Kingsport District High School,’ the vice-principal commented, indicating the folder on her desk. ‘She seems to be an excellent student, though her last term marks slipped quite a bit … Marital breakup often adversely affects the children.’ The woman’s sharp eyes bored into Catherine’s defiant ones.
‘So I’ve heard,’ Catherine replied and clamped her lips shut on a cutting remark the woman didn’t deserve. Morgan’s marks were marvellous under the circumstances.
Mrs Beneteau felt the chill and reverted to small talk. ‘I hope you’ll like Atawan. We’re a close-knit community but we welcome newcomers.’ She noted Catherine’s Ph.D. and profession on the form Catherine had thrust at her. ‘Especially people like you and your daughter.’ She laced her fingers together and rested her hands on the desk. ‘Do you and Morgan enjoy swimming?’
Catherine nodded.
‘We have a new municipal pool and they run classes for everyone. It’s becoming the action centre of the town.’
‘I’ll have to check it out,’ Catherine replied, relaxing into her chair. ‘Where is it?’
‘On Bridge Street … not far from where you’re living, in fact,’ the vice-principal replied, glancing back down at the form. ‘I see you’ve rented the Tomachuk place.’ She noticed the confusion on her visitor’s face. ‘The three-storey brick house with the belt of trees behind it.’
Catherine nodded. ‘That’s it.’
‘It was a shame the place stayed empty for so long.’ Mrs Beneteau shook her head. ‘But some people are so superstitious.’
‘Superstitious? About what?’ Catherine’s hackles rose. ‘What’s wrong with the house?’
Before the vice-principal could answer, Mr Enright and Morgan returned. Morgan was smiling in a way Catherine hadn’t seen in a long time and her eyes had lost the haunted, guarded expression they always held among company. Catherine let the subject of the house drop. ‘So, Morgan, do you like the school?’ she asked instead.
The girl nodded. ‘If everyone is as kind as Mr Enright has been …’
Mrs Beneteau came forward. ‘I’m sure you’ll enjoy all your classes, Morgan. We have an excellent teaching staff and very good facilities.’
‘Thanks very much,’ Catherine said, rising to shake hands with the vice-principal and the art teacher. ‘Morgan will be here bright and early Tuesday morning.’
Mrs Beneteau waited until she heard the outer door bang shut before turning to her colleague. ‘They’ve rented the Tomachuk house.’
Peter Enright let out a low whistle. ‘That girl, Morgan, seems like the nervous type to me. Hope she’s not too spooked when she finds out about the house.’
‘Her mother’s uptight, too.’ Mrs Beneteau’s lips thinned. ‘She’s hiding something … didn’t want to talk about her husband.’
Enright shrugged. ‘Messy break-up, probably. Happens all the time.’
‘Maybe …’
‘That wasn’t so bad was it?’ Catherine commented as they climbed into the car. ‘Now we’ll see what’s downtown.’ But as she pulled away from the kerb the car sputtered and died. ‘Damn.’ She turned the key again and again while stomping on the accelerator. Her only reward was a mechanical sigh.
Suppressing the very colourful language which sprang to her lips, she sat back and calmed herself. One more try, then she’d admit defeat. She rubbed her sweaty palms on the worn seat, sat straight and slowly turned the key. The engine caught easily, as if it had never balked. ‘Eureka,’ she breathed in relief.
‘We’ve got to get a new car,’ Morgan complained. ‘I can’t be seen in this crate.’
‘Nonsense, it just needs a tune-up,’ Catherine replied, gunning the motor.
They pulled up to the stop sign at the main street. ‘At least there’s a garage in town,’ Morgan commented, pointing to the far corner. As they waited for a car to pass, they watched a tall, blond man hose down the windows of the garage.
‘It was all boarded up when I was here house hunting,’ Catherine said. ‘Looks like Royce’s Garage is opening again.’
The car belched and shuddered. ‘Maybe you should drive in there right now.’
‘I need the car to get to work this afternoon, but while you check out the stores I’ll make an appointment at the garage.’ Catherine parked in front of the Bank of Montreal. ‘I’ve got to go to the bank and the post office as well. Shall we meet back here in an hour?’
‘OK,’ Morgan agreed reluctantly. The girl scanned the stores without enthusiasm. ‘An hour will be plenty of time.’ She got out of the car and Catherine watched her saunter down the hot sidewalk.
Ed Royce coiled up the hose and stowed it at the side of the empty service bay. A year ago, the garage was never empty – it had buzzed twelve hours a day with the noise of machines as he and his two assistants repaired the cars of Atawan. He had made a name as an honest mechanic and people drove from all over the county to seek his services.
Ed frowned as his footsteps echoed in the garage. How long would it take to rebuild his business – if he could do it at all? He went over to the sink to wash his hands. As the warm water poured over his fingers, he studied his nails. They were clean. Gaol had done that for him. Close to a year without touching oil and grease, dirty engines and well-used tools had accomplished what no amount of soap and water could do. For the first time since he’d begun monkeying around with his old jalopy at age sixteen, his hands were clean. He longed for the feel of grease under his nails.
He
