Gail Bowen - Burying Ariel

My daughter was fighting tears. So was I.

“This just keeps getting worse,” I said. “When Howard and I drove out to tell Charlie yesterday, I didn’t realize that he’d lost Ariel and their baby.”

Mieka didn’t respond, but even in the sepia light of early evening, I could read the truth in her face.

“Charlie wasn’t the father,” I said.

The shake of her head was almost indiscernible. “No,” she said. “The baby wasn’t Charlie’s.”

“Whose then?”

“I don’t know. But Mum, somehow I had the sense that the father was someone who just contributed. Ariel was so determined to have a child.”

“To take her back to the time when she was happy?”

Mieka bit her lip and nodded affirmation.

My daughter and I put up the portable crib beside the big bed and tucked the girls in. When we came back to the living room, there were muted cheers.

“Finally!” Angus groaned. “Listen up, you two, Greg has found something he swears is totally cool.”

I stopped in my tracks. “If it’s a board game, I’m going to go back there and crawl in next to Maddy.”

“Not a board game,” said Greg. “A game of exploration in which we test the limits of the human psyche to endure suspense.” His accent became plummy, with each vowel lovingly elongated. “We invite you to a weekend with the Master of the Macabre, Mr. Alfred Hitchcock. It appears our hosts here at Katepwa own the complete Hitchcock oeuvre.”

“I’m up for anything that doesn’t have a Teletubby in it,” said Mieka.

“I thought,” said my son-in-law, “that we would begin with that a paean to the virtues of voyeurism, Rear Window.”

“Never heard of it,” said Angus.

“I’ve never even heard of Alfred Hitchcock,” said Eli.

“Well, hold on to your popcorn,” said Greg, “because you’re in for an experience that will explode your kernels.”

In the first minutes after Greg slid Rear Window into the VCR, I had the sinking feeling that, like many of us who had been glorious in the fifties, the movie had aged badly. The sets were undeniably cheesy, Grace Kelly’s uptown accent grated, and Eli and Angus wondered loudly about Jimmy Stewart’s sanity in ignoring a woman who, despite her pearls and addiction to cocktail dresses, was clearly a hottie. But it wasn’t long before we were all seduced by the possibility of murder in the apartment across the way. By the time Jimmy had snagged the murderer and Grace had snagged Jimmy, everyone in the room was a Hitchcock convert. As the closing credits rolled, Angus said, “That really was cool. When we get home, I’m going to get some serious binoculars.”

“Over my dead body,” I said, and everyone groaned.

I awoke the next morning to my granddaughter’s hungry howls. As I padded into Mieka and Greg’s room with her, I noticed the glow of what looked suspiciously like dawn outside the windows. I crossed my fingers. If we were lucky, climatologist Tara Lavallee was going to have to do another 180 on her holiday-weekend forecast. Fifteen minutes later, when I took a noticeably heavier and happier Madeleine from her mother’s arms and headed for the kitchen, sunshine was pouring through the skylight. The gods were smiling. It was going to be a banner day.

Over breakfast, we floated possibilities. After agonizing between the pull of two highly desirable options, Taylor went with Greg and the boys to fish, and Mieka, Madeleine, and I drove to Lebret to a teashop that was famous for its rhubarb pie and local crafts. When we met back at the cottage for lunch, everyone except Greg had caught their limit, and Mieka had spent a week’s profits from her business on hand-woven willow picnic baskets and placemats the colour of marigolds. That night we had a fish-fry, sucked in our breath with amazement at the fireworks, then came back inside to watch Eva Marie Saint and Cary Grant dangle from Mount Rushmore in North by Northwest . Eli and Angus decided they were up for a double feature and watched Psycho till two. Madeleine slept through the night again, and the next morning Madeleine’s mother came to the breakfast table with the Mona Lisa smile of a woman savouring the pleasures of being well and truly loved.

Sunday was a blue and golden beach day, and we soaked up every blue and golden moment. At suppertime, Eli supervised a wiener roast at the outdoor fireplace, and that night we watched Vertigo.

On the other Hitchcock nights, my kids and I had second-guessed everything from hairstyles to characters’ motivations, but from the first frames of Vertigo we were rapt, wholly absorbed by this tale of a broken man clinging to the belief that he could be saved by a woman and of the woman who was the tragic object of his obsession. Even Angus was silent as the final credits rolled, stunned by the desolation of Vertigo ’s final image.

When Eli flicked the lights back on, Peter surprised me by asking if I wanted to go outside for some fresh air.

I grabbed a sweater, and we headed for the beach. As we walked out on the dock, I mulled over a dozen possible revelations, but Peter’s words surprised me. “How certain are they that Kyle Morrissey killed Ariel?”

I stopped and turned to face him. “Where did that come from?”

“I’d just like to know if the police are sure they have the right guy.” His tone was falsely casual. “I thought someone at NationTV might have given you some inside info.”

“We pretaped last week’s show, and I haven’t talked to anyone at the station since Ariel was killed. Pete, you’re not a ‘Hard Copy’ kind of guy. What’s all this about?”

For a moment, the only sounds were the slap of water against the pilings under the dock and the bark of a dog somewhere along the shore.

“It’s about Charlie Dowhanuik,” Peter said finally. “Ever since I heard about Ariel, I haven’t been able to get him out of my mind. We were never tight when we were in school. I always liked him, but he was so wild it was scary.”

“That wildness worried his mother, too,” I said. “She told me once that Charlie didn’t have friends, he had fans. Marnie thought other kids hung with Charlie just to see what he was going to do next.”

Peter laughed. “Yeah, he did bring new meaning to the term ‘living on the edge.’ And most of the time it was a lot of fun to be around him. But sometimes he was just too intense.” His eyes met mine. “Mum, he was always too intense about Ariel.”

“And that’s what’s worrying you now?”

“He was crazy about her – crazy in both senses. Any bone-head would understand him loving her. Even in high school, Ariel was absolutely stellar, but Charlie was fanatical about her. I remember one time I ran into him at the mall. We were just shooting the breeze when Ariel walked by holding hands with a guy. It wasn’t a big deal – just the usual girl-boy thing – but Charlie got this look like somebody had kicked him in the stomach. Then he said, ‘Sometimes I think it would be easier if I was dead… or if she was.’ ”

I felt a chill, but I tried to sound reassuring. “Pete, everything in high school is hyper-intense. People grow up.”

My son raked his hand through his hair. “I know, and I know Charlie sounds as if he really has it together. I listen to his show whenever I’m back in Regina. He seems like the coolest guy on the block, but…” Peter chopped the air with his hand. “But nothing,” he said. “I’m suffering from Hitchcock overload. You’re right. High school isn’t real life. And Charlie got his happy ending. He and Ariel were a couple. He would have done anything for her.”

In the lake’s dark waters, the moon’s reflection was a vortex. The final lines of the poem Charlie had recited on-air the day of Ariel’s death pressed upon my consciousness with such urgency that I spoke them aloud: “Dig them the deepest well,/Still it’s not deep enough/To drink the moon from.”