Amazing Grace

Praise
for…

Hit & Mrs.
If you're in the mood for a cute chick-lit mystery with some nice gals in Montreal, Hit & Mrs. is just the ticket.
—Globe and Mail

Crewe's writing has the breathless tenor of a kitchen-table yarn…a cinematic pace and crackling dialogue keep readers hooked.
—Quill & Quire

Shoot Me
Possesses an intelligence and emotional depth that reverberates long after you've stopped laughing.
—Halifax Chronicle Herald

Relative Happiness
Her graceful prose…and her ability to turn a familiar story into something
with such raw dramatic power, are skills that many veteran novelists have
yet to develop.
—Halifax Chronicle Herald

Copyright © 2015, Lesley Crewe

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission from the publisher, or, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, permission from Access Copyright, 1 Yonge Street, Suite 1900, Toronto, Ontario M5E 1E5.

Vagrant Press is an imprint of

Nimbus Publishing Limited

3731 Mackintosh St, Halifax, NS B3K 5A5

(902) 455-4286 nimbus.ca

Printed and bound in Canada

Design: Heather Bryan

NB1196

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Crewe, Lesley, 1955-, author

Amazing Grace / Lesley Crewe.

Issued in print and electronic formats.

ISBN 978-1-77108-316-4 (paperback).—ISBN 978-1-77108-317-1 (pdf)

I. Title.

PS8605.R48A66 2015 C813'.6 C2015-904314-X

C2015-904315-8

Nimbus Publishing acknowledges the financial support for its publishing activities from the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF) and the Canada Council for the Arts, and from the Province of Nova Scotia through Film & Creative Industries Nova Scotia. We are pleased to work in partnership with Film & Creative Industries Nova Scotia to develop and promote our creative industries for the benefit of all Nova Scotians.

For my little sister, Nancy

CHAPTER ONE

NOW

The whole point of going to this wearisome church meeting is to ask the woman in charge of lunch how she makes her coconut balls. Fletcher loves them. I know damn well she's leaving something out of the recipe; I cannot replicate the delicate texture no matter how hard I try. And that ticks me off.

All of these church women give me indigestion, but dang, if you want something done around this rural community, go ask the seventy- and eighty-year-olds who frequent the parish halls in their aprons. At sixty, I'm pretty much the youngster in this crowd, and they know I'm not the religious type, but they're so hard up for fresh blood and volunteers, they tolerate me.

Up to a point.

Last year at the Christmas tea and sale, I was so frustrated at a woman dithering in front of the fruitcakes I blurted, “Jesus Christ, take me now.” The ladies gathered round in case I trembled with ecstasy and crashed to the floor. They were mightily displeased when they realized that wasn't my problem. The city slicker and her wallet left in a huff, and I got a lecture from the eighty-two-year-old selling her woollen mittens.

I bought the fruitcake and a pair of mittens and gave them a twenty-dollar donation.

Tonight, all I'd like to do is sit in front of the fire with my feet up and listen to Fletcher snore in his recliner. I'm into a good book and have half a bottle of red wine on my kitchen counter. The cats are ready to settle in for the night and the dogs are lying like lumps in front of the wood stove. I can hear the wind howl outside on this cold November night.

I can't believe I'm going to get up and leave this paradise. The church hall is only five miles down the road, but it might as well be on another planet. Then I look at Fletcher's gigantic, callused hands resting on his round tummy and think I'm going to make those coconut balls if it kills me.

The wind nearly takes the back door out of my hand as I leave. Yellowing dry leaves fly through the air like bats as I hurry to the truck. When I turn the headlights on, I can see one of the small pumpkins we carved a few weeks ago rolling down the dirt driveway.

It's one of those absolutely pitch black late fall nights. I don't take the truck out of third gear in case Harvey Trimm next door is on the side of the road with his two fat Labradors, giving them their nightly pee. There's also a little fox that lives behind the blackberry bushes and I've nearly killed him several times. He thinks it's a game to dart out in front of the truck. I swear he waits for me, but tonight he's nowhere to be seen. Probably curled up in his foxhole, lucky sod.

The village of Baddeck in Cape Breton is like a picture postcard during the day, nestled in and around the Bras d'Or Lakes and rolling hills, but driving at night on the outskirts of town with no streetlights is a challenge when you have middle-aged eyes. I've become one of those old lady drivers, the kind men and teenagers love to scream past, like I don't deserve to live. I usually roll my window down and holler, “Asshole!” at the disappearing tail lights.

When I park the truck next to the Knox Presbyterian Hall, I see elderly Janet Pickup hanging on to her car door handle, afraid to let go. I honk the horn to get her attention, to tell her to wait for me. She jumps with fright instead. Now I've probably killed her. She has a bad heart. I exit my vehicle and have a tough time shutting the door.

“Wait for me, Janet! I'll be right there!”

“What?”

A great gust blows me over to her. I ask her if she's okay, which is ridiculous. She's frozen in terror.

“Just hang on to me!” I shout in her ear.

“What?”

Fortunately for us, Gladys Nicolson pulls up. She's a stocky woman, just what we need for ballast. The three of us are carried along and mercifully saved when we pile against the hall door. Inside, we're greeted by six other ladies, all clucking about how it's not fit for man nor beast out there.

Then why the hell are we here?

Before they start reading minutes and saying their unnecessary prayers, I hurry over to Delima Garland. “I think I'm missing an ingredient in your coconut ball recipe. What am I doing wrong?”

“The recipe I gave you is correct.”

“Are you sure it's only one stick of butter? Because it seems to me—”

She holds up her hand to stop me. “I cannot help you. Some people are just born bakers.” She hurries off, her orthopaedic shoes squeaking on the tile floor.

Old bitch.

I always sit by Gladys in the fall and winter because heat radiates from her bulk.

“Can you believe that woman? Won't give me her recipe.”

Gladys leans towards me in conspiratorial fashion. “If it's her coconut balls, add another stick of butter.”

“Thank you, Gladys.”

Looks like the trip to town was worth it.

Fletcher and I live in a large trailer partway up a steep hill, overlooking the water. We have a gorgeous view of lakes, the rolling fir-covered mountains, and the sky, with its ever-changing cloud formations offsetting the beauty of eagles, hawks, and seagulls as they dip and soar, carried along by the wind that whistles down from the headland.

Fletcher has had many Americans and Germans offer him big money to buy his land, but he tells them to go to hell. His enormous rounded metal garage is to the left of the trailer, with a large yard in between, where people leave their cars to be fixed by the best mechanic on the island. While I don't see a whole lot of him during the day, I sure like being with him as he dozes in his recliner in the evenings.

Living with Fletcher is easy. I feed him, and since he hates dealing with money, I do his banking along with my own. If I were the criminal type, he'd be in trouble. We buy what we need, take care of our pets, and enjoy each other's company in front of the fire at the end of the day. There's no hanky-panky going on. We're roommates, even if no one in town believes it. Let them think what they want. It really doesn't matter to Fletcher and me.

The next day I make the coconut balls. It's amazing what another stick of butter will do. I put some on a plate and carry out a mug of tea for Fletch. He's bent over an open car hood, covered in grease.

“Thought you might be hungry.”

He stands upright and towers over me, wiping his hands on a cloth, his brown eyes lost in his streaked dirty face. “Thanks.” Taking the mug, he swallows half of the tea in one gulp before looking at the plate skeptically.

I extend my offering. “Just try them.”

He takes one and puts it in his mouth. As he chews, he nods approval. “Delicious.”

“I'll leave these here for you.” As I put the cookies on his bench, I point at the two fellas at the back of the garage who like to gossip with Fletcher while he works. “You can't have any, so don't ask!”

“Who'd want them? They were as dry as dust last time.”

The dogs join me at the clothesline. Daffy and Donald were strays, mangy-looking things, but with hearts as big as all outdoors. After I gather the sheets to finish drying them on a rack by the wood stove, I take the dogs on a hike up the hill out back. This is their favourite thing to do. They love to run ahead of me, but always scramble back to make sure I'm coming.

I know that feeling, so I always stay in the open where they can see me.

We get home when it's coming on dusk, almost time for supper. I take off the orange jacket that Fletcher makes me wear so the goddamn hunters can see me in the woods. That goes for the dogs too. I made their jackets myself. Wouldn't I love to see one of those hunting bastards in front of me. I've hollered at plenty of them from afar. “Go get your meat at Sobeys!” Some of them sit in their warm and cozy huts with bushels of apples scattered around outside to entice the deer to come. And they call that fair game. Fletcher knows how I feel, so he passes on the deer or moose steaks that some fellas try to trade for car repairs. But he says he won't stop eating meat, so I have a beef stew simmering on the stove. I didn't know this cow personally and it didn't live on my hill, and I tell myself that makes a difference. But it doesn't.

Fletch scrubs his dirty arms up to his elbows at the kitchen sink and then sits at the table. I dole out his beef stew with every intention of not eating any, but the smell is glorious. Damn it. I sneak a spoonful on my plate, to eat with my rice and beans. Fletch pretends not to notice. We get caught up with our news, enjoying the company of the cats, Tom and Jerry, who stare at us from the counter. The boys wait patiently for the scraps. When Fletch cleans his plate, I get up and offer him a piece of apple pie, which is a quarter of the whole thing. It will be gone by tomorrow.

Fletch and the animals make a move to settle in the living room to watch television. He enjoys ATV's Live at 5, because he's in love with the female host, Starr Dobson. “A damn fine woman, that one,” he mutters every blasted time she comes on the screen.

Once I wash the dishes, I sit at the kitchen table to finish my tea, the Cape Breton Post's crossword puzzle in front of me. That's when the phone rings. I'm tempted not to pick it up because I don't want to be roped into making sandwiches for Lenny Baxter's funeral.

“Get that,” Fletcher yells. “I'm expecting a call from the auto parts store.”

“Hello?”

“Mom?”

I'm so startled, I spill my tea all over the newspaper.

“Jonathan?” I pick up my cigarettes and light one to give myself a second to think. “It's nice to hear your voice after such a long time. How are you, dear?”

“Not great.”

Jonathan is never great. “What's wrong?”

“It's Melissa.”

Now this does make the hairs on my arms stand at attention. “Is she all right?”

“I'm going to kill her.”

“There's not many parents out there who don't want to kill their sixteen-year-olds from time to time.”

“I wasn't with you when I was sixteen, so how would you know?”

I take a drag of my cigarette. “Since I don't know anything, I'm surprised you're calling me for advice.”

Fletch shows up at the kitchen door. He points at the phone and mouths, “Jonathan?” When I nod my head, he rolls his eyes and disappears.

“If I had anyone else I could call, I would.”

“So talk.”

“Melissa refuses to listen to me. I think she's on drugs. She stays out all night and knows more curse words than you do. She might be drinking, too. I caught her with a boy in her bedroom and she had the nerve to be furious with me!”

“So call her mother.”

“Why do you think Melissa lives with me? Her mother doesn't want her.”

“That's not true.”

“Of course you'd side with her. Deanne's not picking up her phone. She and her new husband are on their honeymoon in some exotic island in the Pacific, while I'm left to worry about my kid being raped while she's shooting up in a crack house.”

Jonathan always was a drama queen.

“It might help if you didn't accuse your daughter of doing those sorts of things.”

“How do you know she's not? When was the last time you came to visit? Two years ago?”

“Sorry, kiddo, I was a bit busy with my chemo.”

“So why are you still smoking? If you cared about us, you wouldn't, but it's always been about you.”

That's enough. “I have to go, Jon; there's someone at the door. Good luck with Melissa.” I put the phone down before he can give me any more lip.

When I curl up on the loveseat by the fire and stare into the flames, Fletch knows that's my signal for Don't talk to me, so he doesn't. He switches the channel and turns on NASCAR racing instead, which has got to be the most idiotic pastime on the planet. Racing around the same track over and over again. After a while I grab the remote and shut it off. He leans back in his recliner and folds his big-knuckled hands over his chest, waiting for me to start talking. The man is very sneaky.

I tell him what Jonathan said.

“You better go help him out.”

“He insults me, he insults you, and my beloved granddaughter is a brat. Why should I put myself through that?”

“You're family.”

Of course he's right, but I'm tired. “I'm going to bed.”

“Can I just point out it's not even six o'clock?”

“Don't forget to give Donald his pill before bed.”

“Righto.”

Before I crawl under the covers, I have a bath. The kind that lasts so long that you have to keep adding hot water to be comfortable. Just me and my thoughts. It's that word. Family. It gets me every time. Sometimes I forget I have a family, since no one is ever around. How can you be a family when everyone is missing?

The added cost of flying out of Sydney to get to New York is bananas, so that weekend Fletcher drives me to Halifax in the truck. It's about three hours, which isn't bad, but the dogs are in the back seat and have a nasty habit of licking our ears. When we pull up to the airport drop-off spot, Fletcher takes my suitcase out of the back and puts it on the pavement. I pat the boys goodbye and join him.

“You're not going to drive all the way home now, are you?”

“We're fine. I'll get me a few Tim Hortons road rockets and a big box of Timbits for the jokers in the back seat and we'll be there before you even land in New York.”

“I'll call you when I get there.”

“Don't piss him off first thing. Let him talk.”

It's hard to be mad at this man, because with his red sweater on, he looks like Santa Claus, white beard and all.

“Go on now.” He pats my back goodbye.

I give him a quick hug and carry my suitcase into the airport. The flight to New York City doesn't leave for two hours, so I buy a coffee, sit on a seat, and wait. The egg sandwich I made this morning gives off a sulphurous smell when I unwrap it from the wax paper. A couple of young girls texting on their phones make a face at each other and move three seats down. It doesn't stop me from enjoying my sandwich.