The Birthday Lunch (11 page)

An hour or more passed and Laverne was painting the fallow field a sienna brown when, startled by a baritone “hello,” she tumbled backward, legs splayed, wide-brimmed hat askew. “I’m sorry,” a male voice said. “May I help you up?” Laverne was furious, how dare the man creep up on her without warning! She was about to give him a piece of her mind when she felt a warm hand cup her elbow and looking up, she saw a tall man wearing a straw hat leaning over her. Removing his sunglasses, he introduced himself as the new United Church minister and asked her name. Laverne scarcely noticed the clerical collar; what she noticed were the green eyes
flecked with gold. She allowed him to help her up and they exchanged names. The minister pointed to an opening in the willows about twenty feet away and assured her that he would paint over there.

Covertly, Laverne watched Alan Harrington walk away and plunk down what appeared to be a kitchen stool before he disappeared into the willows carrying a tin bucket. Minutes later he reappeared, poured water into jelly jars, taped a sheet of paper onto an easel and, never once looking her way, began to paint. Laverne finished painting the fallow field and was deliberating about whether to paint the farmhouse a pure white or a greyish white when she saw the minister lay the finished painting on the grass and lift his cap to wipe his forehead. It was then she saw the gleam of baldness at his crown, and emboldened by the fact that the new minister was probably well into his forties, possibly into his fifties, she asked if he would join her for a cup of coffee. While he obliged, bringing his stool closer, Laverne fetched the basket from where Lily had dumped it and took out the Thermos and cups. As they drank their coffee, Alan Harrington observed that Laverne was working with oils and asked if she had ever used watercolours. “No,” she said. “I prefer oils because I want to paint what I see, I mean real pictures. The paintings I admire the most are those of the Dutch Masters. Are you familiar with the work of Pieter de Hooch?”

“Yes, I am. Are you familiar with the work of David Milne? He paints extraordinary watercolours.”

Laverne tried to think of an encouraging response. Although she had never heard of David Milne and preferred oils to
watercolours, she did not want to discourage Alan Harrington’s interest. What should she say? Laverne was spared an answer by Lily who had returned from her wanderings and was walking toward them, the binocular strap outlining the V of her breasts beneath the damp cotton of the flimsy sundress. She was carrying her sandals in one hand and a bunch of wild purple phlox in the other. “Am I interrupting something?” Lily asked, her voice curious, amused.

“Not at all,” Alan Harrington said. “We were becoming acquainted.”

“This is my sister, Lily,” Laverne said. “Lily, this is Alan Harrington.”

“The new United Church minister,” Lily said. “Hal mentioned you. He’s a member of your congregation.”

“Hal McNab.”

“My husband.”

Alan offered his stool but Lily said she preferred to sit on the grass and so she did, leaning back on her hands, legs straight out, ropes of dark hair dripping between her breasts. Laverne asked if she had fallen into the river. “I went for a dip,” Lily said.

“Without your bathing suit?”

“Why not? There was no one around and it was heavenly floating in the shallows.”

“Did you see any birds?”

Lily held up an index finger. “One crow.”

“Crows fascinate me,” Alan said.

“They fascinate me too. This one watched me float.” Lily glanced at Alan, her dark eyelashes glistening with river water.

Laverne could not be certain, but she thought that Lily was flirting with Alan Harrington. Laverne envied her sister’s ability to flirt. Flirting was something Lily did naturally. She was comfortable with men, treating them as if they were nothing special, and this was the way she was treating Alan, who was flirting back. Laverne could think of only one way to break up the flirtation and that was to announce it was time for her and her sister to leave. “You go ahead with the picnic basket,” she told Lily. “I will follow with the rest.”

Lily was halfway up the hill when Alan asked Laverne if both she and her sister would come again.
Both you and your sister
, he said and Laverne took her time straightening the paintbox before telling him that she couldn’t vouch for her sister but
she
would try to come again. Wild horses wouldn’t have kept Laverne away but she didn’t want to appear too eager for Alan’s company.

Laverne returned the next afternoon and claimed her painting spot at the bottom of the meadow. Alan appeared soon after and asked Laverne if her sister had gone for a swim. “No,” Laverne said. “Lily is frail and is resting at home.”

“She didn’t seem frail to me,” Alan said. “She seemed full of life.”

At that moment Lily was at the top of the hill in the derelict farmhouse, propped up in bed, living the impassioned life of Madame Bovary. The bedroom was at the back of the house, which had the advantage of being quieter than the bedrooms facing the road. If she had looked out a front bedroom window, Lily might have seen Laverne and Alan at the bottom of the meadow, but looking out a front bedroom window was the last
thing on Lily’s mind because now Emma Bovary was prostituting herself to Rodolphe, imploring him to become her lover, if only he would pay her debts.

Where is your backbone and common sense? Lily said to Emma and scribbled
foolish woman
in the margin.

W
akened by piping voices below the porch windows, Matt crawls out of bed and, peering outside, he sees the little next-door girls on the narrow strip of grass between the houses. The oldest, the bossy one, is trying to teach her sisters to sing “O Canada” in French, waving a small Maple Leaf flag to conduct. But her sisters are not cooperating and run to the front of their house where red and white balloons are tied to the veranda railing.

It is Dominion Day. This afternoon people will stream into town from surrounding villages and farms to buy ice cream and attend the lobster boil and rock festival in O’Connell Park. Three hours from now in Alberta, Matt’s daughter will be organizing the next-door children in a parade while Trish stays inside with Dougie who, given the opportunity, will run away.
Matt’s family lives in the heavily wooded area of Bragg Creek and whenever his son escapes, he either heads for the river or the woods where there have been occasional sightings of cougar and bear.

Matt is exhausted. With the help of temazepam, he fell asleep soon after his head touched the pillow but in less than an hour he was yanked awake by three or four cars roaring past the porch windows. The cars raced uphill toward the Knoll where there was a short reprieve as the roars were swallowed by the countryside. Before long the cars were back, mufflers blasting as they raced downhill and past the house. The brakes squealed as the cars turned onto Main Street and gunned away, toward Sussex Corner. During those wakeful hours, tears of anger and frustration dampened the lumpy, mildewed mattress that wasn’t replaced after the house was reroofed. Balanced on the cusp of sleep, Matt heard the freight train clattering through town, its mournful wail receding as it was swallowed by the valley.

The spare room doors are closed and Matt makes his silent way down the hall to the bathroom where he scrapes off his two day shadow, pulls on his clothes and drinks a glass of water. No time for coffee; it is almost ten o’clock and he wants to see Carl Reidle before people from nearby villages and farms stream into town for the holiday celebrations. Matt remembers when he worked at the Creamery, Carl told him that he sold more ice cream on Dominion Day than he did during the rest of summer.

The morning is cool and beneath the cloudy sky, kite tails of sea fog trail over lawns and sidewalks. Matt parks at the Creamery without noticing the man walking a black Labrador
along the sidewalk, or Corrie Spears watching from her picture window.

Carl Reidle is a tall, angular man with an easy smile, but he isn’t smiling when Darlene tells him there is someone here to see him and he recognizes Hal and Lily’s son. It has been years since Matt worked for Carl but he still remembers him as a cocky teenager and a hard worker who wouldn’t leave after his shift was over until the counter and floor were clean. Carl shakes Matt’s hand and says, “I can’t tell you how sorry I am, Matt. Terrible, what happened to your mother.”

Once again Matt ignores the sympathy and asks Carl what he knows about the accident.

“I’ll tell you what I can,” Carl says. Leading the way to the office, he tells him to sit down and shuts the door. Matt holds up the notebook.

“Good idea,” Carl says. “You should write everything down.”

“Corrie Spears told me that you called the ambulance and the police.”

“I did. The accident happened shortly after two-thirty. I called the paramedics and the police a few minutes after that. The paramedics said they would come right away but no one at the police station picked up the telephone. When I called ten minutes later, the constable answered. I told him your mother had been hit by a truck in front of the Creamery and the police should come right away. The constable said his orders were not to leave the station until Deputy Carruthers returned from his noon break.”

“A noon break lasts until two-thirty?”

“If you are the deputy chief, it lasts longer than that. The man is … Well, I won’t say the word. Unfortunately the chief is on holiday.” Carl pauses. “Chief Currie isn’t much better, but he doesn’t take a noon break lasting three hours.”

“Corrie Spears told me the police still weren’t here when she took my father and aunt home. What time did the deputy chief arrive?”

“Three-thirty. By then the ambulance had taken your mother to the hospital.”

“But it’s against the law to move anyone or anything from an accident scene until the police have checked it out.”

“I know, but the paramedics had an emergency call, a heart attack in Penobsquis, so they had no choice but to take your mother to the hospital.”

“What about witnesses?”

“Well, besides Corrie there was an American tourist who saw it all. He told me that your mother was crossing the road when she was caught under the front wheel and dragged three or four feet beyond the crosswalk. As I said, I didn’t see the accident but before the ambulance took your mother away, I checked the distance and three or four feet beyond the crosswalk seems about right.”

“She was on the Creamery side of the crosswalk.”

“Right. The American waited an hour for the deputy to arrive and when he didn’t show up, he was apologetic and explained that he and his wife were expected in Quebec City by eight o’clock and they couldn’t wait any longer.”

“Did you ask for his name?”

“I did.” Carl opens the top drawer of his desk and hands Matt a piece of paper on which he has written:
Stanley Price. 19 Fairview Street
,
Quincy
,
Massachusetts. Telephone: 617-793-1231
. “He told me that he and his wife would be travelling and would be out of reach for a month.”

“The truck driver, do you know who he was?”

“I couldn’t say. To tell you the truth, Spurrell’s gravel trucks go past here so often I don’t pay them much attention. But after the ambulance left, I walked over to the truck to see who the driver was, but he had skedaddled so I never got a look at him. He might have been around but I didn’t see him.”

“A hit-and-run driver.”

“You could say that except that when I left for home, the truck was still in front of Millie Keirstead’s, so the driver might have been hiding close by. No doubt he was a kid, most of the Spurrell drivers are kids.”

“Did the deputy chief show up?”

“Eventually. I was locking up for the night when he pulled into the parking lot. He asked me where your mother was located before the ambulance took her away and I showed him. He asked who was around when the accident happened and I told him that a tourist from Massachusetts had seen the accident and that he had waited over an hour for the police to show up. I told him that Corrie Spears saw the accident from her veranda and he should to talk to her. I watched him leave the parking lot but he never crossed the street and Corrie tells me the deputy chief has yet to darken her door.”

“Did he measure the tire tracks?”

“Not while I was here. He may have come back later but I doubt it,” Carl says and leans across the desk. “Last year I was nearly hit by one of these young guys who race around town at all hours of the day and night. I managed to get the driver’s licence plate number and took it to the police. They did nothing, so I filed a complaint against them at the town council office. I also signed the petition recommending that the town police be replaced by the RCMP.”

“It seems that can’t happen soon enough,” Matt says.

“You’re right about that,” Carl says.

Because her bedroom is on the other side of the house, Laverne slept through the little girls’ rendition of “O Canada,” but now, an hour later, she is awakened by a loud knocking on her door and waits for whoever it is to go away. The knocking persists and when Laverne doesn’t answer, the door opens and a familiar voice calls, “Hello Laverne! It’s me! I’m coming in now!” Footsteps approach the bedroom and a small woman with piercing eyes appears in the doorway. A moment passes before Laverne recognizes Jan Pronk’s mother. “I thought you were in Holland,” she says.

“I got back yesterday,” Hennie Pronk says, “and now I am here to help.”

“Why?”

“Because of what happened to your sister.”

“My sister is dead.”

“But you are alive,” Hennie says briskly. “And I came to see you. How are you?”

An unanswerable question.

Hennie pats Laverne’s bundled body. “You do not know how you are. It is the shock. It was the same with Henrik.” When Laverne does not respond, Hennie says, “Henrik died four years ago. Four years. And now I will make us some tea.”

Laverne does not drink tea in the morning but lacking the energy to correct her friend, she resigns herself to the sounds of running water, a whistling kettle, the smack of pottery on the kitchen counter. Soon after, Hennie appears in the bedroom doorway, a pottery mug in either hand. She places one mug on the nightstand and instructs Laverne to sit up and drink her tea. But Laverne will not sit up and drink her tea. She refuses to be instructed and those who make the attempt are given short shrift. Undeterred, Hennie parks herself at the foot of the bed. Resisting the urge to kick her off, Laverne closes her eyes and waits her out, grimacing at the sound of slurping tea, the denture clicking against the rim. Hennie tells her that as soon as she heard the news, she telephoned Jan. Once again, Laverne does not respond and Hennie says, “Jan asked me to tell you that he and Lucas are thinking of you.”