Gail Bowen - Burying Ariel

“The newsroom at Charlie’s station will be getting the story soon. They may have it already,” I said. “You don’t have much time.”

When he turned to face me, Howard’s eyes were rheumy. “My grandmother used to say, ‘There’s this life, the next life, and a turnip patch on the other side.’ ”

“Not much there to cling to when times get rough,” I said.

Howard shrugged. “Have you got anything better?”

As we approached the grassy slope where I’d seen Ariel and her class that morning, I had to admit I didn’t. At that moment, it was hard to envision a future that contained anything but pain. The University Day Care Centre was nearby, and the staff had liberated their preschoolers to take advantage of a five-star spring day. Wild with freedom, the children ran and somersaulted down the little hill, a kaleidoscopic, perpetually moving swirl of fluorescent wind-breakers and new sneakers. As they called out one another’s names in voices bright as May sunshine, I remembered other voices, other children.

Ariel had been a golden child, tow-headed, cobalt-eyed, long-limbed. From the moment she came through the front door for Mieka’s party, she had been surrounded by other children. Charlie Dowhanuik had spent much of the party on the edge of the fun, watching intently, his small fingers splayed against his cheek, trying without success to cover the purple birthmark that threatened to engulf his face. When I served the food, he squeezed in next to Ariel. She had reached up, pulled his hand down with her own, and peered at his face closely. “It’s not so bad,” she said, “but if I get the dime in the cake, I’ll give it to you.”

When Howard and I passed the closed door of Solange Levy’s office and heard weeping, Howard shot me a supplicating look.

“I’ll see if there’s anything I can do,” I said. “You call Charlie.”

Solange’s door was open a crack. I rapped on it. “Solange, it’s Joanne.”

“Are you alone?”

On the desk in front of her were her silver bicycle helmet and the lock to her prized Trek WSD, but Solange didn’t appear to be going anywhere. A cigarette smouldered between her fingers. She was holding a framed photograph in her hands. As I watched, she ripped the photo out, picked up a snapshot from her desk and slid it carefully into the pewter frame. “I have to protect this,” she said. “It’s of Ariel at Lake Magog. It was the first day of the New Year, and she was so happy. She’d always been so worried about other people’s happiness – so afraid to put her own wishes first.” Solange shook her head furiously. “So female and so destructive. But she found her strength on our hike at Mount Assiniboine. There were just the two of us. It was tough. There was a blizzard. There were places where the ascent was straight up the mountain. Once the path under her feet just gave way, but she held on.” Solange stared at the photograph. “All her life she’d had fears, but by the time we got to Lake Magog, she knew she’d never go back to being the compliant little girl. She had found her power.” Solange’s voice broke. “Then some bastard kills her as if she were an animal.” For a beat Solange herself seemed torn apart by the violence that ended her friend’s life; then she turned to steel. “He won’t get away with it.”

I followed her as she strode down the hall. There were three people in the main office: Detective Robert Hallam was watching Rosalie search the drawer of the cabinet where we kept personnel files, and Livia Brook was hovering between them like a duenna.

Solange paid them no heed. A counter separated the reception area from the office. When Solange set the photograph on it, Livia came over immediately. She picked up the picture, glanced at it quickly, then thrust it at Solange. “It’s too much,” she said. “We don’t need a reminder of what we’ve lost.”

“You’re wrong.” Solange’s tone was coldly furious. “We do need a reminder. We all need to be reminded every minute of every day that what that monster took from us was beyond price. Otherwise, there will never be justice.” Solange returned the photograph to the counter, but her fingers lingered, caressing the curve of the frame. “When I was young,” she said, “I was prepared for confirmation by a Spanish priest – a fat, useless old man, peddling cruel patriarchal dogma, but one of his lessons stayed with me. He told me there was a Spanish proverb I should remember whenever I had to make a choice in life.” Her voice deepened into a parody of the old priest, and she wagged her finger theatrically. “God says, ‘Take what you want. Take it, and pay for it .’ ” She turned to face me. “The man who killed Ariel took the best, Joanne, and if God won’t make him pay for it, I will.”

After her diatribe, Solange seemed on the verge of shock. The carapace of the warrior had shattered. She was hugging herself, but as strong as her arms were, they seemed incapable of holding the pieces together, and her tawny green-flecked eyes were unblinking and wary. I reached out to her, but Livia stepped between us and slid her arm around Solange’s waist. “She needs to be alone for a while. She has to find the place inside herself that will enable her to accept this.”

Robert Hallam raised an eyebrow. “When she finds that place I’ll want to talk to her. Meanwhile,” he said, turning to Livia, “I’d appreciate a few minutes of your time.”

“Of course,” Livia said. “Just let me get Solange settled.”

Rosalie removed her pale yellow jacket, hung it carefully on the back of her chair, filled a glass at the water cooler, picked up a box of tissues, and followed Livia and Solange into the inner office. Too exhausted to move, I stared at the closed door, hoping against hope that somewhere in Livia’s endless store of New Age baloney, there was a mantra that could fix everything. I wasn’t optimistic.

Rosalie was back almost immediately, but Livia stayed with Solange for several minutes. By the time she emerged, Robert had his notebook and pencil at the ready, and his foot was tapping. “Let’s get to the questions, Dr. Brook,” he said. “I haven’t got all day, and there are a lot of people to see.” I took that as my cue to leave.

When I got back to my office, Howard was waiting for me. He was standing at the window, looking out at the campus. The early-afternoon sun poured in on him, softening his angular features, changing him from a wary old eagle into someone kindly and avuncular. The metamorphosis was more apparent than real. He gazed at me through hooded eyes.

“Is it my imagination or is the number of dumb fucks in the world increasing?”

“I take it your question isn’t rhetorical,” I said.

“You tell me.” Howard ran a gnarled hand over his head. “The young cop they sent to interview me had a pronunciation problem. Every time he said the word ‘deceased,’ it came out ‘diseased.’ ”

I bit my lip to keep from smiling. “As in ‘How well did you know the diseased?’ ” I said.

“Exactly. Jesus, Jo. That kid must use the word ‘deceased’ a hundred times a week. You’d think somebody would have told him, wouldn’t you? Then, after he left, I tried Charlie’s house. No answer, so I called the radio station. They’ve got the Queen of the Coneheads answering the phones there. She refused to put me through to Charlie directly. Told me it was station policy to screen all calls. I told her my call was important. She said every phone call CVOX gets is important. I told her it was an emergency. She said if I considered myself suicidal, she’d redirect my call to a crisis line; if not, I could leave my name and number like everybody else.”

“Did you tell her you were Charlie’s father?”