Burying Ariel (22 page)

As soon as Kyle was out of earshot, Bebe shook her head. “A nice boy, but dumb enough to be a cop. He’s moved back here now.”

“Ronnie told me,” I said.

“It’s for the best,” Bebe said. “He’s got a short fuse, and until they capture the real murderer, people are going to be giving him the evil eye.” Her head darted like an old tortoise’s. “Which leads me to my next point. Did you talk to that African prince?”

“Yes,” I said. “We had a long talk this morning.”

Her eyes danced with expectancy. “So – could he have done it?”

I thought of the man who had felt ten feet tall and bulletproof from the moment Ariel asked him to help her have a child. “Not in a thousand years,” I said.

“Case closed on him?”

I nodded.

“Good. Not often you see a real man any more. It would be a shame to have to turn him in. How about the one with the face?”

“He’s … out of town.”

Bebe’s radar registered my hesitation. “That’s not the same as ‘case closed,’ is it?”

“No,” I said, “it isn’t.”

“Then keep your ears open.” She flicked her tongue over her upper lip and captured a drop of chocolate that had caught on a whisker. “I’ve got another potato to throw in the pot,” she said. “What do you know about the girl’s mother?”

“Molly Warren? She’s my gynecologist. She’s phenomenal.”

“Maybe not so
phenomenal,”
Bebe said mockingly. “She came to visit the girl a few times. They only quarrelled the once in my hearing, but it was the kind of spat that left questions in my head.”

“Questions about what?”

“About parents and kids and where you draw the line.” Bebe’s tone had grown sombre.

“How many kids do you have, Bebe?”

“I
had
three – all dead now. What I’ve got left is Ronnie, who was my youngest’s youngest, and Kyle, who is my one and only great-grandchild. I’ve had disappointments in my life. Don’t kid yourself about that. All the same, I never woulda spoke to one of mine the way that doctor of yours spoke to her girl.”

“What did Molly say?”

“All I heard was a snippet. They were squabbling about something the daughter wanted to do. I don’t remember what it was, but finally the girl said, ‘I have to do what I think is best. I only have one life.’ Then the mother said, ‘You’re wrong. You have two lives, because I gave you mine.’ ”

“When was this?” I asked.

“Not long ago,” Bebe said. “Coupla weeks, maybe three. But the
when
isn’t as important as the
what
. In my opinion, that’s a helluva thing to say to your own flesh and blood. I never got all the way through grade eight, so maybe I’m not one to judge. But if I was you, I’d be asking myself whether I might’ve been wrong in thinking my friend, the gyn-e-col-o-gist, was such hot stuff.”

By 5:30 the next morning, Bebe’s words were still roiling in my mind. Maybe that’s why I ended up having a double martini for breakfast, or maybe it was just that, on that particular day, gin seemed as reasonable a way to cope with the vagaries of human existence as any other.

On the day of Ariel’s burial, the fanfare prelude to the AccuWeather forecast catapulted my body into full flight-or-fight mode, but I was neither a fighter nor a flyer. I was a fifty-two-year-old woman trembling with the hope that climatologist Tara Lavallee’s forecast for the day ahead would be shot through with Old Testament pyrotechnics: skies riven with lightning, torrential winds, bushes exploding into flames. Anything to make travel impossible. But Tara’s chirp was lively, and the weather she predicted was picture-perfect, province-wide.

I reached down and stroked Willie. “No exit,” I said, but Bouviers aren’t hard-wired for existential gloom. When I swung my legs out of bed, Willie’s hind end shimmied with joy. As we had every morning of our life together, we were going for a run around the lake. It was the highlight of Willie’s day, but that morning the run was for me. I was counting on exercise to dull the edge of the axe that was pounding at my nerve ends.

It didn’t work. Neither did the long, hot shower or the series of deep inhalations of Lavender Breeze scented oil that Angus had given me for Mother’s Day with the suggestion that aromatherapy might help me chill out.

Molly Warren had been adamant about not wanting us to wear anything “funereal” for the trip to Lac La Ronge. She said Ariel had loved the cottage, and it would be good for us to spend at least part of the day exploring the island’s rough terrain. As I pulled on my bluejeans, a turtleneck, and my favourite fleece jacket, I tried to banish fear by imagining the species of wildflowers that might cover the island at this time of year, but I was beyond help. Visualization may make it possible for a tight end to win a Super Bowl ring, but it didn’t work for me. The knot of terror in my stomach as I started downstairs in search of something to eat was the size of a bowling ball.

From my pregnancies I had learned that even the queasiest stomach can tolerate soda crackers. I found half a box of saltines in the cupboard and opened the refrigerator in search of something with which to wash them down. When I shook the orange-juice carton and discovered it was empty, my fate was sealed. The bright blue bottle of Bombay gin jumped into my hand.

Remembering the sense of well-being that had enveloped me in Druthers when the first sip of gin and vermouth hit my bloodstream, I mixed a martini that was very dry and very large. The four jumbo olives I added for food value would have made a traditional martini glass pitifully small, and I complimented myself on having the foresight to use a tumbler. I took my breakfast to the deck, where I shared my crackers with Willie and savoured my martini. By the time, I’d emptied the glass, I could have flown to New Delhi. Gin: the Breakfast of Champions.

The waiting area for Athabaska Air is at the north end of the Regina airport terminal. In all, five of us were flying north: Molly and Drew Warren, Solange, Fraser Jackson, and me. I was the last to arrive, and as we exchanged greetings I thought that with our jeans, hiking boots, and air of forced conviviality, we could have been taken for a group about to fly to some sort of corporate retreat. Only the rectangular box in Molly Warren’s hand hinted at a mission grimmer than formulating shared goals or fine-tuning human-relations policies.

The 8:05 flight to Saskatoon was a favourite of business people and civil servants. A dozen of them, toting laptops and insulated coffee mugs, crossed the tarmac ahead of us. I tried to emulate their confident, purposeful stride, but my feet dragged. Halfway to the plane, filled with longing for the safe world I was leaving behind, I turned to gaze back at the terminal.

The sun was glinting off the windows that separated the waiting room from the runway, so at first I couldn’t be certain that the woman pressed so close to the wall of glass really was Livia Brook, but the Botticelli abundance of hair and the explosion of scarlet poppies on the woman’s shawl were dead giveaways. As I watched, Livia raised her arm in a gesture that could have been either farewell or benediction. I averted my glance. The memory of her sad party for one was still vivid; I didn’t need another image of Livia Brook’s painful longing for connection.

Behind me, Solange’s shout was insistent. “Joanne, what’s so fascinating? They won’t wait for us, you know.” Solange, too, had lingered, anxious for a final smoke before boarding. She had abandoned her customary uniform for a costume that was the epitome of urban chic: bluejeans, white T-shirt, smart black leather jacket, backpack decorated with Japanese cartoon characters, black ankle-length boots. When she saw me coming towards her, she took a lung-filling drag, threw the cigarette to the pavement, and ground it out with her toe. Then she looked at me with an abashed smile. “No more delaying tactics,” she said softly. “Time to take our friend home.”

In the first days after Ariel’s death, I had feared for Solange. Her grief and anger manifested themselves in a manic energy that could have consumed her, if she hadn’t found an outlet for it. Luckily, she had. Rosalie told me that Solange had taken to riding her bike for hours at a time: twice she had ridden all night. When she had shown me her shining Trek
WSD
the previous September, Solange had admitted the bike cost her a month’s salary and then some. That morning at the airport, it seemed the bike had been worth every penny. Solange was pale but composed; it was apparent that somewhere in her solitary journeys along the bike paths and streets of our city, she had found a measure of peace. As that seriously undervalued philosopher Frank Sinatra once said, “Whatever gets you through the night.”

When Solange and I fell into step, I touched her arm. “Did you see Livia in the airport?”

Solange made a moue of disgust. “I would have thought she’d have more pride. She’s been obsessive, as if this trip were an adventure one longed to be a part of.”

“Were she and Ariel that close?”

“Maybe at the beginning. Ariel told me that when she and Livia met at that women’s retreat on Saltspring, they were both at a turning point in their lives. They supported one another’s choices, the way women are supposed to do, and for a while there was a bond. I’ve always assumed Livia was instrumental in getting Ariel the job here.” Solange looked away. “I’ll be grateful to Livia for that as long as I live.”

At that moment, the attendant asked for our boarding passes, and we had to climb the stairs and find our seats. The plane was small and airless. I felt a flicker of panic, but the Bombay gin seemed to have long-lasting anaesthetising power, and as Solange led me to the only two empty seats left, I surrendered to inevitability.

After we’d fastened our seatbelts, Solange pointed her index finger towards the place three seats up and across the aisle from us where Fraser Jackson was sitting with Drew Warren. “Now you can answer a question for me,” she whispered. “What’s he doing here?”

I didn’t tell her the truth. The news of Ariel’s pregnancy would have caused Solange anguish, and on that grief-filled day none of us deserved another helping of pain. “I guess they were friends,” I said lamely.

“Fraser Jackson and Ariel?” Solange raised an eyebrow. “Different types, wouldn’t you say?”

“People are full of surprises,” I said.

The plane’s engines coughed to life. I closed my eyes and grasped the armrests.

Solange leaned towards me, curiosity mingled with concern. “You hate small planes,” she said.

“I hate all planes.”

Her gaze was skeptical. “The competent Joanne Kilbourn. I don’t believe it.”

“Believe it,” I said. “Right now, it’s all I can do to keep from clawing my way past you to get out of here.”

“I always thought you were impervious.” She reached into her backpack and pulled out copies of the magazines
Femme Plus
and
Lundi
. “Choose,” she said. “The human mind can hold only one thought at a time. Work on your French.”

“I’ll take
Lundi,”
I said.
“Femme Plus
is too earnest. I want to hear Pamela Anderson
dit tout sur ses implants.”
By the time we’d reached Saskatoon, the gin was wearing off, but as Pamela
parle à coeur ouvert de sa vie
, I’d learned a great deal about true love, forgiveness, and the removal of prosthetic enhancements. We were in Saskatoon just long enough to catch the flight to Prince Albert. Molly was the first of our group to board the plane; Drew and Fraser were right behind her. On the plane from Regina, I’d been puzzled by the fact that Drew had chosen to sit not with his wife but with Fraser. My assumption was that Ariel’s parents had decided that the flight north would give at least one of them a chance to come to know the man their daughter had invited into her life. Molly’s reaction when Drew tried to sit next to her forced me to re-examine my hypothesis. She tensed her lips as if to trap words she would not allow herself to speak, then she tightened her grip on the rectangular box and retreated into isolation as complete as that of a figure in an Andrew Wyeth painting.

I hurried past and sank into the next seat. When I had seen them at the symphony or the theatre, the Warrens had always struck me as the prototype of the high-functioning dual-career couple, but the death of their child was revealing the fault lines in their relationship. There wasn’t much I could do for them, but I could spare them the knowledge that a virtual stranger had witnessed the strain in their marriage.

Solange took the seat beside me. When we were buckled in, she turned towards me. “Ariel and I flew up here one weekend. It was just after we came to the university. There was so much bitterness in the department. The men had closed ranks. Ariel and I felt our lack of locker-room edge most acutely. I think at that point, if we could have found a way out, we both would have taken it.”

“But you’d signed contracts,” I said.

She shrugged. “Precisely. We’d made our bed.”

“Forgive me, Solange, but it was a pretty comfortable bed, wasn’t it? Tenure-track positions at a good university, and you were both inexperienced.”

“In retrospect, I know you’re right, but at the time the atmosphere was so poisonous. You can’t know …” She caught herself. “Well, I guess you can. At any rate, Ariel suggested we come up here for Thanksgiving to put things in perspective.” For a moment Solange seemed to lose her train of thought. When she spoke again, her voice was wistful. “It’s ironic, Joanne. The weekend worked for me. By the time we flew back to Regina, I knew the only sensible course was to do my own work and keep my head down.”

“But Ariel didn’t get to that point?”

Solange shook her head. “No. She didn’t. For her, it just kept getting worse. Every day. It seemed as if the entire situation just ate at her.”

“Maybe she wasn’t certain she was on the right side.”

“Did she tell you that?”

“Not me directly, but another member of the department. She also told this person she was going to have to right a wrong that had been done.”

Solange stiffened. “And your source for this fascinating information is …?”

I sighed. “Kevin Coyle.”

Solange threw up her hands in a furious gesture of dismissal. “Unimpeachable, of course.”