Still Mine (14 page)

My sharpest memories are the dark ones. Driving in a heavy rain to the city with my father. Was I nine, or ten? A car bobbing downstream with its trunk in the air. My father pulled over and waded into the water ahead of the car. I rolled down my window and watched as he took hold of the fender before he dove under. Why did he drag the body back to shore by the collar? I would have let it float away.

The dead man was wearing a shirt and tie and his eyes and mouth were open. I was out of the truck by then, crouching next to them in the rain, the three of us soaked through. I’d never seen a dead body before. The man’s face was distended, his skin a pale gray. He must have tried to escape, my father said, because the driver’s-side window was open and his seat belt was undone. My father crossed the man’s arms over his chest one by one and pressed his swollen eyes closed. Don’t worry. That’s all he said to me.

My mother used to complain that my father never hugged her. As a kid I’d hide in the cold room and watch him eat a bowl of cereal after a shift, his face smeared black from the coal. He almost never mustered a smile. But he never flinched either, even that day at the river, his grip on that dead man’s collar. He never flinched in the face of terrible things.

A
s she walks down the hill from the trailer Clare feels it, the flood of wanting more. The ache that always came the morning after. She pauses at her car, tracing the path of the dog’s leash from the porch to track whether he is tied to it.

“Timber?” she calls. Nothing.

Clare climbs the porch to tuck Charlie’s truck keys into the mail slot. She wears her camera around her neck, her flimsy decoy, the roll of film half finished. It is barely five hours since Malcolm left her on the dark road. Where would he have gone? Driven hours to find a bed or slept hidden somewhere in his car? A man of few traces. Popping through the line of birch trees, she finds Louise waiting on the porch chair, purse already in hand. The screen door is latched, but when Clare calls for Wilfred he appears right away from the living room. He’s been expecting her. He does not unlatch the door.

“So you’re okay if I take her for a bit?” Clare asks.

“I’m ready to go,” Louise says, standing.

Wilfred shifts from foot to foot on the other side of the storm door. Clare makes a point of adjusting the camera around her neck. The photographer.

“I’ll take good care of her, Mr. Cunningham.”

“Have her back in two hours,” Wilfred says without making eye contact.

“We’ll go for a short walk. Not too far.”

They will walk the length of the gorge, down to the creek where Louise was trying to go the other day, see if anything stirs, if any clue or memory bubbles to the surface. Clare guides Louise around the house and across the back field, surprised by how nimble she is, how deftly she manages the steep descent at the back of the property. Giddy at her freedom, Louise walks too far ahead of Clare to manage any conversation, her purse swinging. All Clare can do is pant with the effort to stay close. She used to be fit, used to be able to run far and fast, chased as she always felt. But all those months of driving, of motel living, have taken a toll on her body, and now her legs burn, her shoulder aches.

By the time Clare catches up, Louise stands over the waterfall, the clearing with the fire pit up ahead. If anything stirs in Louise, any sense that this was the last place her daughter was seen alive, she doesn’t show it. Clare lifts her camera and snaps a photograph.

“It looks like someone lives here,” Clare says.

“It’s a gathering place,” Louise says. “We used to come here to have campfires.”

“Is this the spot you were trying to find the other morning?”

“I’m sorry?”

Clare tries again. “Who comes here now?”

“The younger folk, I guess. Shayna and her friends.”

They navigate their way down to the fire pit. Clare is certain there are more discarded beer cans than there were the other day, that someone has partied here in the meantime.

“What a mess.” Louise bends to collect the cans and toss them to the center of the pit.

“Tell me about your daughter,” Clare says.

“She’s a good girl. She’d never leave a mess like this.”

“Maybe it was her friends. Does she have a lot of friends?”

Louise does not look up from her task. “I’m sure she does.”

“Do you like Jared?”

Awaiting a response, Clare clicks a photograph of Louise at work. She seems not to have heard the question.

“She was always Daddy’s girl,” Louise says. “I gave her whatever she wanted, but he was the one for her. I couldn’t compete. They’re so alike. Both so serious. He used to bring her down to the mine on his days off. He was issued a citation once for letting her ride a coal car. They adored each other. Then she grew up and she just got so fiery. When she was a teenager they fought like mad. He couldn’t bear to let her go.”

“Do you worry about her?”

Finally out of breath, Louise sits on a log.

“Do you have children?”

“No,” Clare says.

“When you do, you’ll see. All you do is worry. All he does is worry.”

“Do you see a lot of Shayna?”

“Every day.”

Clare brushes the log next to Louise and sits. She will have to navigate this conversation carefully.

“Do you know where Shayna is now?”

“She’s not here,” Louise says, a shadow passing across her face. “Wilfred takes me to see her.”

“Where?”

“In the garden.”

Clare thinks of Sara’s description of rehab, the dealers in the garden.

“He drives you to town?”

“No,” Louise says. “She planted the cucumbers.”

“Who, Shayna?”

“No. The other one.”

It feels almost shameful, pressing this woman, muddling any lucidity still to be had, capitalizing on her frailties. They both fall silent and listen to the sounds. Honking. Music.

“What is that?” Louise says.

“It must be the parade. In town.”

“Well, we
have
to go,” Louise says, taking Clare’s hand and squeezing it.

Clare remembers Sara saying something about it last night, Sunday’s celebrations, the last remnants of homecoming. Before she can muster a next move Louise is already on foot, headed downhill into territory Clare has yet to explore. The sounds grow louder. After a few minutes they come to a path that takes them up, Clare scrambling to keep Louise in sight as they reach the dead end of a side street. Clare recognizes it, Sara’s house and then Jared’s across from it, both of them parked in their drives. The gorge connecting everyone. Louise is already halfway down the block. Clare hooks her camera under her arm and runs to catch up. She is parched, a headache taking strong hold, the hangover no longer at bay.

The fog retreats against the heat of the sun breaking through the clouds. The road is scattered with cars and trucks in vague formation. Louise and Clare stroll arm in arm on the sidewalk. Two young girls with batons stride alongside a fire truck,
Blackmore Volunteer Fire Brigade
scripted in gold against the dulled red of the cab. The odd person stops them and greets Louise, old friends introducing themselves again in case she happens not to remember. Clare knows enough not to let the conversations meander to hazardous territory. To Shayna.

Clare is surprised by the bustle. Still, like everything else around here, this parade must be a shell of its former self. The sidewalk is not crowded. Most of the townspeople must be in the parade, leaving few as spectators. Clare and Louise wander north and find a stretch of open sidewalk, then sit on the curb, knees tucked up. Clare looks to the sky to absorb the sun. Around them a few children sit on their parents’ shoulders with balloons tied to their wrists, their faces turned south to where the parade crawls toward them. She can imagine what homecoming might have looked like when the mine was open, when Blackmore was alive and well, when those who’d left still bothered to come home for a visit. But Louise seems enthralled anyway. If the parade is a trickle, she doesn’t notice or care. Clare makes a show of taking photographs, lifting her camera every time she makes eye contact with a stranger.

Every man in Blackmore looks loosely the same, descended from the brawn of their miner fathers, thick shouldered and strong. The parade is led by a convertible with a banner on the side that reads M
AYOR
B
ILL
M
C
G
RATH:
S
ERVING
B
LACKMORE FOR
T
EN
Y
EARS
R
UNNING
! The man perched on the backseat is Donna’s husband. Donna waves to the crowd from the front seat. Their conversation in the bathroom last night washes over Clare. You might want to put a cork in it and go home, Donna said to her. You’re asking for it. Perhaps she’d been right.

“She’s nuts.” Louise points to Donna. “Look at her. Waving like the queen.”

“That’s Donna. She works at Ray’s.”

“I know who she is.”

Next come the fire truck and the pair of out-of-sync baton twirlers. Louise clucks when they both drop their batons. A man squeezes into the space next to Clare and sits. He wears an old baseball cap that reads M
INEWORKERS
L
OCAL
118. Alongside him is a boy Clare recognizes as Sara’s son.

“Hi there, Louise. Nice to see you out.” The man waits for some flicker of recognition. When none comes, he offers his hand to Clare. “Steve Gorman. You must be Clare. Blackmore’s lone tourist.”

“I am. Nice to meet you.”

“This is my grandson, Danny.”

“We’ve met.” Clare winks at the boy. “He’s quite the cyclist.”

“We’re headed home to see his mother. He’s got a bit of a stomachache. Don’t you, Dan?”

Daniel buries his head in his grandfather’s lap.

“You’re Sara’s father-in-law,” Clare says.

“I am.”

“She was telling me you look after Danny on the weekends.”

“I do what I can,” Steve says, lowering his voice. “You looking after Louise?”

“Just helping out. I’m staying next door. I offered Mr. Cunningham some help.”

“I’m surprised he took you up on it.”

“So am I. You know him?”

“We worked together for thirty years.” Steve Gorman leans closer to Clare. “Listen,” he says. “I’m about to stick my nose in, but would you take some advice from an old man?”

“I might.”

“I heard about last night. At Ray’s. They’re latching on to you because you’re new. All of them. Be careful. They’ll suck you in.”

“Who will?”

“Just take it easy. That’s my lowly advice.”

Next to his grandfather, Danny holds his head between his legs.

“I should get this boy home,” Steve says. “Just wanted to stop and say hello. Louise? It was great to see you out. Give my best to Wilfred.”

“I will,” Louise says, her gaze distant.

On the sidewalk Steve Gorman rolls the boy over in his arms and sets off. Clare and Louise wander up the block in search of another vantage point. The light and sounds of the parade disconcert Clare, a crushing pain forming between her ears. Before falling into bed last night she’d loaded her gun, sliding bullets one by one into the chamber, then peeling back a loose piece of wall paneling in the bedroom to hide it. She feels swarmed here, anxious, wishing she’d brought it with her. What good is a gun tucked away?

Clare guides Louise to sit on the curb in front of Ray’s.

“Wilfred will be here any minute,” Louise says.

“I don’t think he’s planning to come.”

“Of course he is. They just had to pick something up after his shift. Shayna wouldn’t miss this.”

Next comes a group of veterans, Blackmore’s War Heroes, two pushed along in wheelchairs and three others upright and spry in their faded uniforms. At a break in the parade Clare’s eyes land on Jared Fowles. He stands directly across the street, tipping his ball cap in salute, a water bottle in his hand. Who knows how Louise will react to her estranged son-in-law? Clare tries to shoo him with a slow shake of her head, but Jared doesn’t stand down. Please don’t come over here, she wants to holler at him. But he crosses anyway, placing his hand on the last veteran’s shoulders as he passes. Only when he hovers over them does Louise take notice.

“Hi,” he says.

“Sit down,” Clare says. “You’re blocking our view.”

Jared sidles up to Clare so that their arms touch.

“Hi, Louise,” Jared says. “You look well.”

“Thank you,” Louise says without looking away from the parade.

“Not even a flicker,” Jared whispers to Clare. “Should I be insulted?”

“Be quiet,” Clare says.

“Is Wilfred here?”

“Do you see him?”

“Jeez,” Jared says. “It’s nice to see you too.”

She nudges him over, out of Louise’s earshot. “I’m worried you might upset her. She thinks Shayna is on her way here. Sometimes she thinks I’m Shayna.”

“Wouldn’t that be convenient?” Jared says. “Lets me off the hook.”

“Don’t you care what people think? Everybody is looking at us.”

“I know what they think. It doesn’t matter if I care.” Jared reaches over and tugs on the strap around Clare’s neck. “And they’re looking at
you
. At this camera.”