Grave Concern (8 page)

“Now?”

“Nevvy's calling in the loan,” said Hille. She knocked back more of the coffee as though it were stone cold.

“And you don't have the dough.”

Hille cradled her face in her hands. “I could ask Ron, I guess, but he doesn't know anything about it.”

“The breasts or the loan?”

“Both.”

As hard as Kate found this to swallow, at least on the breast front, she bit her tongue and simply nodded.

“You're the only one I've told, Kate. You absolutely must not say anything to anyone.”

“No problem,” said Kate, who couldn't imagine a suitable setting for passing on a confidence like that, except maybe a comedy club.

Pleasure is none, if not diversified.
The minute Donne's phrase popped into her head, Kate knew she
must not
relay it aloud, even accounting for its quite possibly whizzing over Hille's head. And Kate knew something else.
Diversified
. Of course! Here was her chance. Here, staring her in the face, was the perfect opportunity for business diversification, her secret plan sparked — coincidence? — by Hille's Christmas party.

“So, uh, Hille, honey. It seems to me you're in a bit of a pickle.”

“No kidding. The thing is, what can I do? You seem like a sensible person … well, you always were. What should I
do
, Kate?”

Hille's last few words curled up into a whine, and Kate felt a tiny nibble on her hook.

“Look, Hille. I've got a small secret myself.”

Hille's eyes darted northward. “You do?”

“I don't tell many people, because it's not officially included on my business licence. But I know I can trust
you
.”

Hille's earrings fairly rattled.

“I offer advice.”

Hille's earrings drooped again.

“At a very,
very
reasonable price. Less than half what a professional would charge, if you get my drift. Cash straight up. No cheques or Mastercard. No blabbing to the taxman, in other words.”

A variety of expressions played across the polymeric planes of Hille's face. Kate sensed in every fibre of her being the delicacy of the moment.

“How much?” said Hille finally.

“Thirty-five an hour, twenty bucks for half. I'm always here, whenever you — or any client — need me. No forms to fill out, no official record. No awkward contact with your doctor or … alternative health care provider. Hille,
no one need know your specific concern.
”

“Even if it's
grave
?” said Hille.

Not bad, thought Kate and had another look at Hille. “Whatever is said in the Grave Concern office stays in the Grave Concern office, between you and me.”

“But Kate, my whole
problem
is the money.”

Kate had to admit this was a logical objection. Desperately, she sifted her memory for the haphazard gleanings of half a century. Brain defragmentation was in order, and quickly. Long ago, for some job, she'd been required to read a sales manual, a full chapter of which, she now recalled, was devoted to the art of Overcoming Objections. Okay, here it was:
Acknowledge and recast the objection, then restate the benefits
.

She looked Hille straight in her large, Lasik
TM
ed eyes. “Hille, I understand your concern, but what we're talking about here really isn't money. No, no, no. It's
four lattes
at the Beanery for priceless guidance that will last a lifetime.” Kate looked pointedly at Hille's hands. “A
fraction of a manicure
, Hille, for
peace of mind
. Think of it.” (And here Kate took a flying leap.) “Admit it to yourself, Hille, because you have essentially already admitted it to me: there's
much more
to all this
than just boob cash. That is
so
not the issue.”

Hille looked down at her Glamorous Garnet nails. “It's like you can see right inside someone,” she said.

Yes!
Kate raised her gaze to the ceiling, whence descended another brainwave. A name for this new branch of the business — the Grave Concern Head Shop. A proprietary offshoot, if you like. A commercial sideline that would never appear on any government form. The Grave Concern Head Shop would remain Kate's little secret — just between her and Lucy van Pelt.

Since the kiss against the fence after Student Council in the grey damp of a late winter afternoon, Nicholas had known for sure Kate was the One. Then J.P. came on the scene to ruin it all. The trouble as Nicholas saw it: He lacked J.P.'s exotic flavour. Kate knew Nicholas too well. Kate's house, after all, backed onto Nicholas's lane. They'd played in the same puddles as toddlers. Walked the same streets to school every day since they were five. In Grade 2, to show his interest, Nick had punched her arm. Hucked snowballs in Grade 3.

Grade 6. The morning of Valentine's Day. On either side of the narrow, packed path across the school's field, the snow was hip deep. Nicholas slowed down. Stopped. Following behind, wary of an ice ball or face-washing, Kate slowed, too. Ultimately, though, she had no choice but to come up to where he stood. From behind his back, Nicholas thrust out a hand. Kate flinched. But no physical pain ensued. Instead he held something out, a heart-shaped box. Chocolates. She'd seen them on the shelf at Fossey's Drugs. She stood frozen, the box in her gloved hand, mouth agape. Nicholas turned and walked on to school.

By Grade 10, Nicholas had gained a modicum of subtlety and patience. One day, as they fell in together walking home at lunch hour, Kate brought up the subject of J.P., whom Nicholas had recently befriended. What did they do together? she asked. Played pool, smoked dope, listened to music, he'd replied. What did they get up to on any given Friday night? At least two of the above, grinned Nicholas, at some third party's house.

Kate hesitated, then came out with it: Did they ever talk about girls? That's when it first twigged, and Nicholas's pain began. Disjointed bits emerged, some meeting at the curling rink, Kate's ensuing crush. Kate was forthright, as if Nicholas had no stake in the thing. Was she blind, or just blindly in love with his friend? Nicholas didn't want to find out. As they parted at the bottom of his street, Kate asked breezily whether J.P. had ever mentioned her specifically.

Now it was Nicholas's turn to hesitate.

Kate had no idea what J.P. was really like. This, at least, was what Nicholas told himself. Sure, he could see the attraction; J.P. was good looking, no one would dispute that. At his best, hilariously funny. Smart, maybe too smart for his own good. But there was the other side: crude, full of nebulous grudges.

Fairly sure he would say no, Nicholas asked J.P. along one Saturday on a family expedition. The Enderbys were going to tow their sailing dinghy to Big River, at the mouth of the Pine. Slow and lazily rolling in its wide valley bed, the Big was often mistaken by area visitors for a lake. It was this lake-like quality that made it so good for sailing. To Nicholas's surprise and faint consternation, J.P. said he would come.

The morning of the day they were to go, Nicholas fretted that J.P.'s edgy manner might bomb with his mom and dad. He needn't have. All the way to Big River in the car, J.P. kept everyone, including Nicholas's little sister Philippa, in stitches with amusing tales of the Marcotte family cat, punctuated with witty asides on passing sights that breezed just over ten-year-old Pip's head.

Dr. and Mrs. Enderby took the boat out first. The minute they'd cast off, J.P. turned to Nicholas and offered him some weed. Nicholas groaned. This was exactly the kind of impropriety he'd been dreading.

“What's wrong?” J.P. said. “They're gone. Not paying attention. Lighten up, man.”

“Not here, J.P.” Nicholas whispered, though there was little need. “Not with parents and” — he glanced over at Pip in her hippie-flowered shorts, wading near shore — “
her
around. Where's your head at?”

J.P. seemed hurt by this, more hurt than seemed appropriate to Nick. J.P. smoked about half the joint, then doused it and put it back in the breast pocket of his lumber jacket. He said little as they sat on the rocks staring over the water, and Nicholas got up and walked up and down the beach, glancing at his friend now and then. As he came back to sit down, Nicholas noticed a yellowish discolouration just beside J.P.'s eye. Neither obvious nor drastic. Hardly there. Or was it the light? Nick thought it looked like an old bruise, but couldn't be sure. Should he ask? But just then, his parents, tearing along on a reach, called out they were coming in.

“You boys come and fend off!”

“All set to go out?” Dr. Enderby called as they approached.

“Sure are!” J.P. said and rushed forward, getting in Nicholas's way.

“Grab the stay! Grab the stay!” yelled Nicholas. Too late. The boat hit the dock with a thump as the Enderbys rounded up under partial sail. Thrown forward by the force, they uttered “Oh!” and “Oof!” but gamely climbed out without a word. Still, Nicholas knew his father would vent once J.P. was gone. Tough shit. His dad should have slackened off both sails, not just the one.

He directed J.P. up front. “Take that sheet and haul in or slack off when I say. You can lock it in that cleat there.”

J.P. stuck out his palms and wiggled his mouth and eyebrows like Charlie Chaplin, clearly not having understood a word Nicholas said. Nicholas laughed and picked his way back to the stern. He sat down and took the tiller, pumping it back and forth. He backed the sails to get the boat moving.

Dr. Enderby called, “Hey, I forgot to ask. J.P.: you're a good swimmer, right?”

“Sure am, sir!” J.P. yelled. Oops, Nicholas had forgotten. They hardly ever brought lifejackets, just took swimming skills for granted. He sure hoped J.P. was actually telling the truth, and not just being charming.

Suddenly, the wind caught the mainsail and the boat heeled up, alarming J.P., who threw himself to the high, dry side.

“Whoa, man, is it s'posed to do that?”

“Only when we beat upwind,” Nicholas laughed. “It's called heeling. Get your ass up here and lean out like this. It's pretty cool.”

J.P., who had only ever had an occasional ride in an uncle's motorboat, looked terrified as the mast groaned and the taut sails strained against the wind. His face spoke his thoughts: their lives were now on the line and clearly soon to end.

“You
can
swim, right?” Nicholas said. “You weren't just bullshitting.”

J.P. sneered. “Would I bullshit about a thing like that?” Then he grinned, and Nicholas noticed a broken tooth toward the back of his mouth. Had he always had that?

Nicholas set the boat on a firm course, and J.P. seemed to calm down. It didn't take him long to figure out that a “sheet” was a rope, and a “cleat” could save the hands from a nasty shredding. Pretty soon, they were whipping along, the water whizzing below their wet bums on the tilted deck, laughing and singing at the top of their lungs dirty songs J.P.'s dad had brought back from the war.