Gail Bowen - Burying Ariel

Peter frowned. “What’s that?”

“Just a line from a poem.”

Pete grinned ruefully. “If I’ve driven you to poetry, it’s time to change the subject. What do you think about going back to the house and cracking open a cool one?”

“I think it’s a terrific idea,” I said. “This is the old Queen’s birthday, and it should go out with a bang not a whimper.”

Our family logged an album-full of Kodak moments before we went our separate ways at the end of the holiday weekend, but Monday night, as I crawled into my own bed in the city, the image that haunted me was one that existed only in my imagination. It was of Charlie Dowhanuik, heartsick and angry, watching the girl he loved walk away with another boy. When I finally drifted off to sleep, I was still puzzling over two linked and unsettling questions: How much did Charlie know about Ariel’s pregnancy, and when did he know it?

I awakened the next morning to the sound of the phone ringing. When I picked up the receiver and heard Howard Dowhanuik’s basso profundo, I began to wonder about telepathy. As always, Howard wasted no time on niceties. “That priest who’s staying at Charlie’s house called. He says you’ve been checking up on us.”

“It’s a good thing I took the initiative,” I said. “Otherwise I never would have discovered that you and Charlie were in Toronto.”

“I gather from the frosty reception I’m getting now that you’re pissed off because I didn’t consult you.”

“I’m not pissed off,” I said. “Just confused. Howard, what are you and Charlie doing visiting Marnie?”

When he answered, the bravura was gone. “My son wanted his mother.”

“Is Marnie capable of…?”

He cut me off. “Marnie’s capable of nothing. She has to be fed. She wears a diaper. When she laughs, she shits herself.”

I had known him for twenty-seven years, and I thought I knew the full range of his anger: faked indignation at an opponent’s attack; icy fury when a jab hit home; withering disdain for those he believed had betrayed him. But the wrath in his voice as he described his wife’s condition came from a place I didn’t recognize – it was rage at the very nature of existence.

It sucked the sense out of me, and my response was as empty of meaning as one of Livia Brook’s New Age banalities. “But Charlie’s finding something he needs there.”

“Apparently,” Howard said, dryly. He had never been easy with talk of emotion. He coughed to cover the awkwardness. “Jo, I didn’t call to get into all that touchy-feely crap. I need you to do a little asking around at NationTV.”

“For what?”

“Charlie wants to know more about this guy the police have picked up in connection with Ariel’s murder.”

“He can probably get most of what I know from checking the Internet,” I said. “I’m sure the media here are working overtime to keep the curious informed.”

“There’s always stuff that isn’t made public. You know that.”

Remembering his pain about Marnie, I tried to keep the asperity out of my voice. “Howard, you must have a dozen cronies in the Crown Prosecutor’s Office who can give you inside information.”

“I don’t want them to know I’m asking.”

“This isn’t a good idea,” I said. “Nothing I find out about Kyle Morrissey is going to bring Charlie any comfort.”

“Damn it, Jo. Don’t give me a hard time. Just do it.” Then Howard added a word he didn’t often use with me. “Please.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll ask around. What’s your number there?”

“I’ll call you.”

The phone went dead. I stared at the blank display screen, aware that once again I’d been handed a task I could neither embrace or refuse. As I snapped on Willie’s leash, I remembered how, on dismal mornings after Rose, my old golden retriever, died, I had clung to the thought that, come spring, my new dog and I would amble around the lake, taking time to smell the flowers and whatever else of interest came our way.

I looked into Willie’s anxious eyes. “Time to hit the street, bud, but those flowers are going to have to wait.”

When I arrived at the Political Science office, I noticed two things: the vase beside Ariel’s picture was filled with daffodils, and Rosalie Norman was already at her desk. She was reading, but as soon as she heard my step she slapped her book shut. “Caught me,” she said.

“Something steamy?” I asked.

“I wish,” she said gloomily. She held up the book so I could see the cover. It was an ancient edition of The Joy of Cooking.

“I don’t think reading Irma and Marion Rombauer is an indictable offence,” I said. “Are you planning a special meal for Robert?”

“If only it were that easy,” she said. “Joanne, I’m going to have to confess this to someone, sometime.” She closed her eyes, and the words tumbled out. “I’ve never learned how to cook. I don’t even know how to boil an egg.”

“How did you get by all these years?”

“Mother. She was a born cook, and since she passed away, I’ve just had my main meal at noon here at the university, and warmed up a bowl of soup for supper.” Rosalie handed me The Joy of Cooking. “Mother swore by this, but it was published in 1951. Do you think it’s still okay?”

I looked at the page Rosalie had marked. The heading was “Sweetbreads, Brains, Kidneys, Liver, Heart, Tongue, Oxtails, etc.,” and Irma and Marion Rombauer recommended their use for girls who knew there was no substitute for a juicy steak or a glistening roast but whose slenderized pocket-books made them feel “as broke as the ten commandments.”

“Well?” Her voice was anxious.

“The prose is a little dated,” I said, “but the recipes look good. What kind of meal does Robert like?”

“Anything that starts with a slab of meat and ends with whipped cream.”

I handed the cookbook back to her. “Let the Rombauers be your guides,” I said. “You couldn’t make a better choice. Now, I’d better move along. This is my first day with Ariel’s class.”

Rosalie winced, but she squared her shoulders, obviously determined to soldier on. “Good news there, at least,” she said. “There was a copy of Political Perspectives propped outside the office door when I arrived this morning. It’s in your mailbox.”

When I checked the front page, I saw that the name and office number were Ariel Warren’s. I turned back to Rosalie. “No note?”

“Not if there isn’t one inside.”

I leafed through the book. It was heavily annotated, but there was nothing explaining where it had come from. I told Rosalie I’d see her later and headed for the office of the one person who might be able to shed light on the mystery, but when I rapped on Kevin Coyle’s door there was no answer. It was the first time in two years that he hadn’t been there when I’d stopped by. As I headed for Ariel’s class with the folder containing her class list and syllabus in my hand, I was uneasy. The world was out of joint, and when I walked into Ariel’s classroom, nothing I saw suggested an imminent return to harmony.

In a configuration that was as rare as it was disturbing, all the women were sitting on one side of the room, all the men on the other. The room was layered with emotions: tension, confusion, and grief. There was nothing to gain by adding my own feelings to the mix.

I kept my approach coolly academic. I introduced myself, explained that I’d be teaching the rest of the course, then wrote my name, office and phone numbers, and e-mail address on the board. When I turned to face the students again, they were bent over their notebooks, writing. We were back on track, and I wasn’t about to take any chances.

“I understand from your syllabus that your mid-term is this Thursday. Here’s what you’ll need to know.” An hour and ten minutes later, I had given them a lecture that was comprehensive and deadly boring. It was what an Australian academic I knew referred to derisively as “a chalk and talk class,” but it had done the job. Immersed in a familiar ritual, the students relaxed. As the class ended and they began throwing their notebooks and texts into their backpacks, the tension knotting my shoulders eased. Ariel’s Political Science 101 class and I were on our way.