Tell Anna She's Safe (20 page)

I tried to land the glove on the blade of my paddle. Every time I got the paddle underneath and tried to lift it, the glove slid off, disappeared momentarily, resurfaced. It was an elusive hand.

This could go on forever. I drew the boat in close and reached over the side to pluck the glove between my thumb and forefinger. It became a lifeless mound of rubber in the bottom of the canoe.

A sudden gusting wind came up just before I reached my bay. It whipped up the waves. I paddled harder. To get around the point into the bay I was going to have to turn the boat so the waves came broadside. Oh God, please don't let me tip! But there was Marc's calm voice, telling me what to do. I knelt down, off the seat, and, staying low, slid forward to the middle thwart. I crouched down low, the water right there beside me now. I watched in alarm as the waves came rolling against the side of the canoe, but the boat was imperturbable. I soaked my arm digging the paddle in deep. A few minutes later I was in calm waters.

I sat on the shore for a good ten minutes, absorbing the solid ground into my being. Only one molded piece of fibreglass had separated me from the river. Yet putting my weight low in the boat, at surface level, even just below, had made me safer. So that I wasn't an object
on
the water, but somehow part of it, rolling with it, not resisting. My pulse returned to normal.

I left the glove in the boat and went up to the house for a plastic bag. And then what to do? Offer it to the police on the slim chance it had incriminating fingerprints on it? Or accept it as a macabre message from Lucy:
I am down below.

I wished I could leave it at that. Why did I have to keep embarrassing myself? Why couldn't I stop myself from making that phone call?

I laughed when I told Sergeant Lundy what I had found.

“Is it a surgical glove?” He sounded interested.

“No, it's a rubber glove. The kind you use to wash dishes.”

“There wouldn't be any prints left on it,” he said. “But I'll come up and get it anyway.” He didn't miss a beat. “I can use it for doing the dishes. My wife will have a fit. I've never done the dishes in twenty-two years.”

I laughed. “Come on up. I'd like to help you give your wife a fit.” I liked the fact that he had a sense of humour. A wife. A life beyond “Major Crime.”

“Did anything—were you able to send anyone to look in that garage?” I was embarrassed to ask.

“I'm not sure,” he said. “I haven't seen Sergeant Roach since yesterday.”

So much for police assistance. Not that I blamed them. Not really. I was on my own. The search was mine, my undertaking. And, it came as a kind of surprise, that was okay.

Being yourself is not a licence. It's a responsibility.

*

ALL THE GROGGINESS FROM THE
bad motel sleep vanished when she came up the drive, past the Pittsburgh Institution sign. She couldn't believe her eyes: Tim was there waiting. In civilian clothes. Outside. There was no gate, no line-up, no security check. There was only a low chain-link fence around a large picnic area. They were free to walk around outside, to eat the lunch she'd brought in a cooler, to snuggle together against the November wind at the picnic table, to pretend they were in a park on the “outside.” A little taste of freedom.

Tim was looking well and happy. He'd been transferred from the slaughterhouse; he was getting to drive the tractor. He was starting to work out again. He was happy she'd come to see him. He pulled her onto his lap. She could feel his hardness while they talked and ate the cheese and fruit she'd brought. She loved that neither of them acknowledged it. That it was just there—an unspoken message of desire answered by her own secret response. Why had she put off coming? This was what she needed—to be reconnected to his physical being. No wonder they'd both been so screwy the last few months. They needed physical contact. It was a shot in the arm. Ballast. She was drugged on the heat of him amid the frigid air.

“I met a guy the other day. Bill Torrence. Rich.”

“What's he in for?”

“Fraud,” said Tim. He popped one half of a muscat grape in his mouth, removed the seeds of the other half, and popped it into her mouth. “He defrauded some guy out of a few million. He'll probably be out on parole in six months.”

Tim himself had just been denied day parole. Again. “I don't want to talk about parole,” she grumbled. She didn't want to talk period. She just wanted to be held. To immerse herself in Tim's physical presence.

“But he can probably help me. After I get out. He says he can set me up in his cattle transporting business.”

“
Cattle
transporting? You'd need a truck.”

“Yeah, he says he can give me info on how to lease one through his brother-in-law—he's a money man.”

“Legitimate money?”

Tim looked hurt. “Yeah, legitimate. You know I'm going legit after I get out.”

“I didn't mean you. I meant Mr. Money Man.” She was running her hands under Tim's shirt. Revelling in the warmth of his skin. She wished she could have all of her skin next to his.

“Well, anyways, it's just an idea we're rolling around.”

“We?”

“Bill and me.”

“How old a guy is he?”

Tim shrugged. “Late fifties? Real classy guy. Just wants to get back to his golf and country club. Who else is going to hire me?”

Lucy sighed. “I know. Those bloody application forms. ‘Previous place of employment: Pittsburgh Institution.' Maybe we could just put ‘Pittsburgh' and they'd think you were a paint mixer.”

“Huh?”

“Forget it. I still think our best bet is to set you up in your own handyman business.” She was sliding her hand down below his belly. Down into his underwear. His jeans were so lovely and loose. She didn't even have to undo the zipper.

“I'd need equipment, tools.”

“Oh, you've got the tool.” She grasped his warm cock in her hand, smiled when she felt it respond.

Tim kissed her hard. “I'll show you my tool.”

Lucy sighed. “I wish you could.”

“I can,” he said. His voice was lost somewhere in her hair. His hands found their way under her jacket. Her nipples hardened under his fingertip squeeze. “Meet me in the bathroom.”

“The bathroom!” She pulled back, stared at him.

“Everyone does it. We won't get in trouble. People even do it in the corner of the visiting room. Staff are pretty human here; they turn a blind eye. But the bathroom's more private.”

She was horrified. “I can't do it in a bathroom, it's sordid. It's—”

“Sh-shh,” he whispered, his hands in her hair. “It's me and you. Nowhere is sordid when it's me and you. I love you.” His voice held a softness she hadn't heard in months.

Her eyes filled up with tears. The horror abated. She buried her face in his jacket. Her cheeks were hot—from shame, from desire. Mostly desire.

In the echoey, tiled bathroom, Tim turned her around at the sink so they could see themselves in the mirror. She reached down and guided him inside her from behind. He was already hard. Ready. She was ready too. She couldn't take him in deep enough. He gripped her pelvis and pulled her off the floor, pulling her hard against him. She felt light and loved in his strong arms. They
fit.

They were meant to be together. There was no greater proof than this—this intimacy achieved in this most cold and sterile of locations.

Oh joy to her body and soul, being with Tim.

13.

I
STOPPED CARRYING MARC'S FISHING
knife with me everywhere I went. There was no humming of motorboats out on the black river. No more cars (that I saw) arrived in the middle of the night. Some nights I even forgot to lock the door.

My neighbours put their dock in, and, kindly, ours too. But the motor-boat remained up on shore. I still couldn't bring myself to ask.

The weather stayed dry. June arrived in a rare heat wave. Forests burned.

I stopped dreaming. I stopped having visions. But I didn't stop paddling.

The rain came one night a week into June. It beat down on the metal roof and woke me up. I welcomed the disruption to my sleep. The rain was putting out fires and stirring up currents. In the morning the world would be soaked and the water calm. But only on the surface. Under the surface, colder and warmer waters were already exchanging places. New currents were flowing. The currents were stirring things up, dislodging things. Sending things to the surface. The resurrection of the deadheads.

The drumming of the rain lulled me back to sleep.

I woke to the sound of birds singing and water dripping from the roof overhang onto the deck.

I was dressed in an instant.

The sun paused for a moment to sit on top of the hills across the river. Belle and Beau barked after me from the dock.

I had gotten the trip to the Hydro-Québec island down to half an hour. I made my usual circle counter-clockwise around the island, ending at the enclave of deadheads on the northeast side. I found an opening among the logs and manoeuvred the boat in. I entered with trepidation. If I saw Lucy, I could not bolt.

The water here was shallow. She could very well have washed up here. She would be protected in this pen of logs, kept safe for those who were looking for her. Maybe only her foot or hand would come up, the way only one end of the logs surfaced. She had spent so much time with them down below, maybe she had become one of them. Maybe she was here and I just didn't recognize her.

I arrived down at the river one morning at the end of the second week of June to find the neighbours' motorboat tied to their dock. I looked at the boat with a grim satisfaction.

That evening I worked up my nerve. I had received permission to borrow the boat. Now I just had to make the call. I got ready to leave a message. It was a Friday evening; he probably wouldn't even be home. I would tell him I had some further information on Lucy's whereabouts, that I wanted to ask if he would do one more search with me. I would be friendly, but formal. I would
not
say, “Why haven't you called me in the last three weeks?”

He didn't say hello when he picked up the phone. He said, “When are you going to get your own life?”

I was so taken aback all my rehearsed lines vanished. “What d'you mean?”

“My call display says Marc Desjardins is calling me. You're living in his house. You're calling on his phone. You're looking after his dogs—”

“They're
our
dogs.”

“Oh?” His tone was knowing.

I was silent. Pissed off. Why had I phoned?

“Sorry Ellen. Call it sour grapes. Male territoriality.”

That term again. But I couldn't stop myself from repeating, “What d'you mean?” I was starting to sound like a broken record.

That made him laugh. “An attractive woman calls me up, and I have to see her ex-boyfriend's name on my call display. As if you're still
his
.”

“I'm not his.” I was indignant. “I'm not anybody's.” This conversation was going nowhere I had predicted.

“Well, that must be lonely,” said Quinn. “What are you doing tomorrow evening?”

I took a breath. “That's actually why I called. I wanted to ask you a favour.”

“Shoot.”

“I wondered if you'd come for a motorboat ride with me tomorrow evening.”

“A motorboat ride with Ms. I'm Afraid of the Water? What gives?”

I ignored his put-down; I was keen to launch into the tale of my experience at the computer, my search on the river.

“You've actually been out on the water?” said Quinn when I was done. “This is a big step for you.”

“Yes, Marc would be proud of me—if he knew.”

“You haven't been talking to him?” There seemed to be relief in his voice.

“No, not lately.”

“Why don't you come and have dinner at my place and we'll talk about it.” He said it without a trace of self-consciousness. As if the last several weeks of silence had never happened. How did men
do
that? And how had he managed to sidestep my request?

“Okay. But couldn't you come here? Then we'd be—” closer to the boat, I was going to say, but Quinn interrupted me. And misinterpreted my reluctance.

“I promise I won't molest you again.”

It seemed safest not to respond to that comment. “What time?” I asked, resigned. And, in spite of myself, excited.

I woke up Saturday morning with the familiar current coursing through my veins. The one that had just let up.
You know you want to go.

Relax, I told myself. Go with the flow. Let the future take care of itself. God, I was starting to sound like Lucy. What was it she had always been at me about? Learning to live in the present moment. Accepting what
is
. I suddenly remembered a book she had given me for my birthday the previous summer. What was it called? The
Tao Te Ching
. One day I would pull it out and read it. I had a feeling it was all in there. And that maybe Lucy had read it like a Bible. That it had gotten her through the two years of frustration waiting for Tim to get out.

I was in the bathroom applying rare make-up when the phone rang. I raced to the office. I stopped my hand on the receiver when I saw the area code. It had been much longer than a few weeks since
we'd
spoken. On the fourth ring, I picked up the receiver.

“Were you outside?”

“I just got out of the shower,” I lied. “Just finished a run.”

Silence. Then: “Your sciatica must be better.”

“Yes.”

Another pause. “I'm sorry I haven't called before now.”

“It was my turn. I got your message. I—I appreciated it.”

“It's okay. We probably both needed a break. How is everything?”

“Fine. Oh, they haven't found Lucy yet, but—”

“The reason I'm calling is my contract is finishing up here in a few weeks.”

“
Weeks
? I thought it was supposed to go 'til the end of the summer?”

“The client changed his mind about a few things. That's a polite way of saying he ran out of money. So it looks like I will be home in the middle of July.”

Home. July.
When are you going to get your own life, Ellen?
Sooner than I thought. “I guess I'd better start looking for a place to live then.”

“Yes,” said Marc. “But there's no rush. I mean I know it's short notice. If you don't find anything for July first, you don't have to worry. I won't boot you out.”

“Thanks.” The laugh got choked in my throat. I was
not
going to cry. “I've been thinking it's time to find my own place anyway. And now I know when you're coming back.”

The words hung between us. They hung in the air long after we'd hung up the phone.

The thought of moving so soon overwhelmed me. July was only two weeks away. I wasn't sure I could find a place that quickly. But the thought of staying with Marc even for a couple of weeks was worse. He would be back to trying to tell me what to do—and not do. No, it
was
time to get my own life.

My new thoughts about moving calmed me down about Quinn.

I had my car keys in hand, hollering for the dogs, when the phone rang again. This time it was a Private Caller. I picked up the receiver.

“Ellen, glad I caught you. I hate to do this to you, but something's come up. I'm going to have to cancel our dinner plans. And I'm sorry I can't talk right now either. I'll call you Monday.”

I barely had time to make polite reassurances before he hung up.

I took myself out to the deck to sit and absorb my disappointment. And to wonder: had they found Lucy?

*

SHE WAITED UNTIL SHE HUNG
up the phone to vent her frustration. Why did all her plans have to get screwed up on her? Now what was she going to do tomorrow for New Year's Eve? There was no way she was going to go skating on the canal by herself. Damn Kevin, anyway. It wasn't as if she had called him. It had been his idea. It had been so long since she'd heard from him—from any of her friends—she hadn't even minded the short notice of the invitation. She'd been elated that he'd reached out to her. That she was going to have some company on the last night of the year. She'd taken her skates over to Bank Street to get them sharpened. Even walked over to Queen Elizabeth Drive afterwards to check out the ice conditions in the daylight. She didn't want to be tripping over cracks and holes in the dark. But the ice was freshly flooded, smooth. It would be fine.

It
would
have been fine.

She continued to grip the receiver. At least she hadn't lit into Kevin. It wasn't his fault his father had taken ill. She was proud of herself; she'd found a calm voice to extend her sympathy, and her concern for the long drive he was going to have to make to get to his father. Kevin had sounded grateful. Relieved. And no wonder. He knew all too well what she was like when plans had to be cancelled at the last minute.

She let go of the receiver and let out a yell of frustration into the empty room. Why couldn't
anything
go the way she wanted? Why was Tim's parole constantly denied? Why was she spending yet another winter alone? Was there some karmic lesson she was supposed to learn from this? Yes, of course there was. She was supposed to learn to go with the flow. To let go. Not hold on so tight. Her anger turned to slow tears of self-pity. And then she chided herself. Love was a choice. She had chosen Tim. She couldn't—clearly!—change the circumstances. But she could change her mind. The Buddhists and Taoists had it right. Even if she didn't like it, she could accept what existed: winter, her fatigue, her aloneness. If she accepted it, things would start to change. She felt the truth of it, like a small spark of excitement inside her.

And she could make her own plans.

When Tim called early the next evening to wish her a happy new year, she returned a whole-hearted wish for his release in the new year.

Half an hour short of midnight, she bundled up and carried her skates out to her car, and drove to a street near the canal. She laced up her skates in one of the change huts. The temperature was holding at a miraculous minus eight and there was only a light breeze. She took a hesitant step out into the darkness, felt the sharpened blade of her skate take to the smooth unseen surface.

She glided out to the middle of the canal, avoiding the other bulky faceless skaters. The waning moon came out from behind a cloud. Its light turned the black ice a dull glistening dark grey. After a few minutes of hard going, she turned her back to the wind. At the moment of her pivoting, the moon disappeared behind a cloud. But she didn't need the light. She spread her arms and let the gusting wind propel her into the unknown new year.

*

THERE WAS NOTHING IN THE
morning news, or in the Sunday
Citizen
. So that wasn't why Quinn had cancelled.

I picked up the previous week's edition of the
Low Down
at the
depanneur
along with the
Citizen
. I turned to the classifieds in the back.

The last time I had done this had been for Lucy, two months before. The similarities were not lost on me. We were both trying to leave relationships. We were both looking for a place on the river. I felt a sudden pang. A wish that we could be talking, sharing our pain and disappointment. Although mine was nothing compared to what hers likely had been. She had risked everything to be with Tim. Had he really been conning her from the start? He'd proposed before he'd got out. It could have been a ploy to entrap her, but there had been no quick prison chapel wedding.
He's giving me two years to decide
. Like Lucy had given him two years. That sounded like someone who was appreciative of what she had done, not someone simply after her money. It sounded genuine. On the other hand, she'd made him her beneficiary anyway. So maybe it didn't matter. But then why propose at all? Unless it was for real.

There wasn't much in the local paper in the way of permanent rentals. They were mostly cottages. There were lots for Lucy. Lucy no longer needed a cottage on the river. The whole river was hers.