Still Mine (10 page)

“This kid was only ten, and the picnic was in the middle of nowhere. By a lake surrounded by thousands of acres of dense bush. My mom would take me and my brother up to join the search lines. Could’ve been one of you, she said to us. I remember staring so hard at the ground, looking for some color, a shoelace or whatever, wanting so badly to be the one to find something. After a week some hikers claimed to have spotted the boy from a distance, but he ran away from them. Sooner or later the search-and-rescue team gave up, and after two weeks everyone but his family stopped looking.”

Clare pauses.

“And?” Malcolm says.

“I begged my mom to take me back but she said it was over, the story was over, the boy was dead. No one could survive that long in those woods. Then September came and one morning the kid’s baby sister woke up and said she knew where he was. The parents drove her into the woods and she walked right to him. He was right there, right under her feet. The poor kid was naked and curled up barely two hundred feet from the picnic area.”

“Dead?” Malcolm asks.

“Alive. Emaciated, but alive.”

“Sometimes you’re certain they’ll turn up dead,” Malcolm says. “And then they don’t.”

Malcolm’s shoulders are bent forward, his arms folded. What an unfamiliar dynamic this is, Clare and Malcolm. She is at once electrified and troubled by it, angered even, wavering between purpose and dread, a pawn in a game she doesn’t yet know how to play. Clare fumbles back into her shoes and moves to swipe her folder off the table.

“I’d like you to give me back my gun,” she says.

“Why?”

“The trailer’s in the middle of the woods. The cell reception isn’t reliable. I have to walk around waving my phone to get your messages.”

“You feel unsafe?”

“Everyone in Blackmore owns a gun. It’s that kind of town.”

“Do you think it makes you safer?”

“Do you know anything about guns? Because I do. And it makes me feel safer.”

“I’d rather hang on to it for now,” Malcolm says. “As we agreed.”

“We didn’t agree, actually.”

Clare jams the folder under her arm.

“If you don’t hear from me, assume I’m curled up in the woods. Assume I’m dead.”

“Clare.” Malcolm watches as she searches through her bag for her car keys.

“I don’t have to go back there, you know.”

“I’m not forcing you. It’s your choice.”

Clare’s jaw clenches. He is not physically forcing her, but Clare can’t be certain what he would do, whom he would call, if she backed out now. The illusion of choice, lest she forget she is under Malcolm Boon’s thumb.

“Shayna’s story,” Clare says. “It’s not the same as mine.”

“You don’t know her story yet.”

A crow descends from the trees and plucks at one of the apple cores. Clare feels antsy, wired up. Malcolm meets her gaze with a steadiness that rankles her. What choice does she have but to trust him?

“Where will
you
be?”

“Not far,” Malcolm says.

“What will you be doing?”

“Whatever I can. Whatever might be useful.”

“Here’s something,” Clare says. “Charlie Merritt is the town drug dealer. He must have outside channels. Dig on that.”

Malcolm jots something down, then stands, putting his folder back in his briefcase, the brown leather of it gouged and scratched. Until six months ago, Clare had never ventured more than a few hours beyond her hometown. Until this week, she’d never seen a mountain, and now she’s cloistered among them, at work for Malcolm Boon. Clare closes her eyes to steady herself. The image of Shayna’s body strikes her, dead and coiled over a rock, or facedown on the ground, unmoving. Even when she opens her eyes she cannot shake it. Clare expects Malcolm to budge, to walk her to her car, but he doesn’t. He simply stands there, hands in his pockets. Without another word, Clare turns to leave.

B
y the time the dash lights flicker out Clare is almost on the far side of Blackmore, almost at the foot of Charlie’s driveway. The clock fades in and out. It must be the alternator. The car dies just as she rolls past the house. When she cranks the keys, the engine will not turn over. Clare sets the gear to neutral and gets out to push it in a crooked line toward her parking spot. The effort renders her breathless and sweaty. Once she reaches the trees she gathers her bag and locks the doors. She cannot be angry at this car for finally dying, this car that has carried her so far without complaint.

No one else is here. When she left this morning both Sara’s and Charlie’s cars were still parked side by side, but now they are gone. The dog is gone too, its leash limp across the dirt of the driveway. Sara will be here in an hour to pick her up, their plan to visit the mine solidified as they said their late good-byes last night.

Toward the Cunningham house some movement catches Clare’s eye. Only a few hundred feet and a thin and trembling line of birch trees buffers the lots between these warring neighbors. Through them Clare can see Louise with her hands on her hips. The jeans she wears are smudged with mud at the knees, gray hair loose around her face. Clare approaches and fishes her camera from her bag. Before Louise sees her Clare clicks the shutter, a picture of Louise, then another of the Cunningham house. This time, she will ask her about Shayna.

“Mrs. Cunningham?”

Louise looks up and squints in an obvious effort to process who Clare might be.

“Clare O’Dey. I walked you home yesterday from the Merritt trailer. Remember?”

“Yes. Of course.” Louise holds her hand out in front of her, then retracts it before Clare reaches her. “There’s no one here.”

“That’s fine,” Clare says. “I’m here to see you.”

When Louise crouches to pick up her trowel, Clare spots it, the cuff around her ankle. A length of rope coils to the house. A leash. Wilfred has tied her up.

“Is everything okay?” Clare asks.

“I’m weeding. Lots of rain means lots of weeds.”

“Can I help?”

Louise looks around at the gardening tools scattered at her feet. If she notices the tether, it doesn’t seem to bother her.

“Is Wilfred home?”

“No. He’s at work. Did I not say that already?”

“How long have you been out here in the garden?”

“Let’s see.” Louise looks up to the sky. “The sun was behind the mountain when I came out. And now it’s not. An hour?”

“I can’t see the sun,” Clare says.

“Over there, behind the clouds. Just a blot.”

Clare motions to the garden. “You’ve got enough here to feed an army.”

“Tomatoes are impossible. They like sun. We don’t get much sun. Peppers too. Lettuce we end up with too much. I give it away. The trick is to space your seeding so the harvest is spaced too.”

“I remember that,” Clare says. “My parents had a big garden.”

“Your parents? Where are they now? In town?”

“My mother’s dead. Cancer.”

“Oh dear. And your father?”

“We aren’t very close.”

“Well,” Louise says, crouching to pick up another trowel. “I could use some help over by the romaine.” The rope slithers behind her, pulling taut as she walks. Wilfred must have measured it to extend to the far end of the garden and not beyond. She hands Clare the tool, then wanders back to her own perch and drops to her knees to dig at the soil. Clare stands there dumbly. It is impossible to imagine Malcolm here in her place. How might he proceed in the face of Shayna’s mother?
Eliminate the obvious possibilities first
. On the drive back to Blackmore Clare waded through their conversation and felt a growing compulsion to defy Malcolm’s warning. How can she keep her distance? Avoid immersing herself? She navigates the rows until she’s among the budding heads of lettuce, then she too drops to her knees.

They work in silence, Clare bending back the heads of lettuce and yanking out the weeds underneath, a rote task she easily remembers. She never bothered planting her own garden after she moved in with Jason. Instead she spent long spring and summer Sundays helping Grace tend to hers. They were twenty-six when Grace came home to set up her medical practice at the hospital where Clare worked as a cleaner, Grace settling down with her fiancé in a rambling farmhouse just down the road from Clare and Jason. Despite the great disparity in their rank at the hospital, it was Grace who sought out Clare’s company in the cafeteria, and Clare counted on Grace to keep an eye on her, to keep her from the cups of pills that lay next to the patients as they slept. Most of Clare’s friendships fell away after high school, but for some reason Grace persisted, and Clare loved her for it, but hated her too, punished her even, the straight and happy path of Grace’s life a constant reminder to Clare of her own failings.

Louise’s face is set in a frown as she works. Clare must take her chance while she has it.

“Does Shayna live here with you?”

“No. She lives in town.”

“When’s the last time you saw her?”

Louise plops back so she is seated in the dirt. She wipes her brow with her forearm, thinking.

“Yesterday. We had tea.”

That was me, Clare thinks.

“Do you see her much?”

“Their house is a terrible mess,” Louise says. “Wilfred can’t take it. He won’t even darken their door.”

“You mean Shayna and Jared?”

“You can’t bring a baby into that kind of place.”

“Were— Are they expecting a baby?” Clare asks.

Louise shakes her head.

“No,” she says. “No baby. She promised. And it can’t happen now.”

“Why not?”

“Because Shayna’s alone. She won’t see him.”

There’s a rumble up the drive. Clare stands and brushes the clumps of mud from her knees. Only when the truck reaches the house and the brakes squeal does Louise lift her head. Wilfred’s window is rolled down. He’s spotted them. Even from this distance the damage to his face from last night’s fight is plain. He drives until he is nearly upon them, then jams the truck into park and jumps from the cab, covering the final distance in a limping half jog.

“You,” he says, his finger at Clare. He stops short and bends down to remove the tether.

“In the house,” he says to Louise.

“I’m not done out here,” Louise says. “Didn’t you have lunch down at the mine?”

Wilfred gives his wife a withering look.

“No. I didn’t.”

“You must be starved.”

“I am. Can you fix me something?”

If his tone is derisive, Louise doesn’t pick up on it. She pulls off her gardening gloves and sets them in the dirt next to the tools, then heads for the house, leaving Clare and Wilfred alone in the garden.

“You can’t go tying her up,” Clare says.

“Who sent you here?” Froth has built up at the corners of Wilfred’s mouth.

“No one,” Clare says.

“I’ll go get my gun. Jesus.”

“I’m not a Merritt, Mr. Cunningham. Get that through your head.”

Wilfred appears stunned at the force of Clare’s words.

“She could get tangled up. Disoriented,” Clare continues. “Hurt herself.”

“You know nothing about it. I’m keeping her safe.”

The gash over Wilfred’s lip has split open, the blood mixing with the spit that flies as he speaks. He wipes it with the cuff of his shirt.

“I could help you,” Clare says. “I could take care of her for an hour or two a day. Give you a break so you can get a few things done. I used to work at a hospital.”

“A hospital.”

“I was a cleaner, but . . .”

“A cleaner.” Wilfred scoffs. “You’re kidding me.”

“You’ve got too much on your plate. You must be looking for Shayna.”

Wilfred’s face goes scarlet. “You don’t talk about her. Ever. To me. To Louise. Understand?”

“I get it. I’m just saying, I’m sorry. I’d like to help you. I took care of my own mother for a lot of years when she was sick. I needed help and no one offered. I’m offering. I can help you.”

The clothes Wilfred wears are streaked with dirt, as though he’d been gardening along with them. Clare has known many men of the same ilk, and so she responds as she knows best. With composure, deference. Like a tree, her mother would say. Bend in their wind. Clare knows that Louise is her only way back into the Cunningham home, into their family life and its secrets.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” Wilfred says, deflated.

“Your wife has been kind to me. You’ve gone through a lot. I’d like to help.”

Wilfred presses his thumb and forefinger into his eyes. Clare can see the cuts on his hands.

“Why don’t I come back in the morning?” Clare asks. “You can decide then.”

Wilfred grumbles something, then spins and strides to the house. He did not say yes to her offer, but he did not say no either. He left her here on his land, a sign the door might be nudged open. It is difficult to summon what sort of relationship this man would have had with his addicted daughter, the wars surely waged between them, an obstinacy that likely runs in the family. Clare pulls her camera from her pocket and, without lifting it to her face, aims it in his general direction and clicks.

T
he woods around Clare are not soundless. She tries to inure herself to the noises by identifying them. The wind. A dead branch set loose from the tree. What sort of wildlife lives around here? Squirrels, bears, rabbits. Cougars. Clare should know better than to be afraid of animals in the woods. Outside the trailer she makes a basket out of the bottom of her shirt and fills it with the empty beer cans from last night. If she had her gun, she might find a log to line them up, ping them off one by one. Instead she carries them down the hill. She will leave them for Charlie. Halfway down, she stops. Two new sounds come at her. Banging. Barking. Once in the clearing, she sees Sara on Charlie’s porch, Timber in round sprints on the lawn.

“Sara. Hi.” Clare sets the beer cans down next to her own car. “You’re early.”

“I came to let Timber out. You ready to go?”

“Sure,” Clare says. “Why don’t we take the dog with us? Go on foot.”

“It’s over two miles,” Sara says.

“I could use the walk. You up for it?”

“Why not?” Sara says.

Somewhere in the folder Malcolm gave Clare are pictures of the Blackmore Coal Mine, a large bowl gouged out of the mountain, cement buildings and chain-link fences crisscrossing it, an industry built up over fifty years and then closed in a single day. Clare runs back up to the trailer to fetch her camera. At first Sara’s clip is quick, but they only make it to the road before she is out of breath, wheezing.