Gail Bowen - Burying Ariel

Gert knew a bad moment when she saw it. “Better get moving,” she said. “That cabin won’t air itself out.”

The wooden shutters were still nailed in place. When we unlocked the door, we were met with the musty gloom of a room that only rodents had called home during the long winter months. As my eyes grew accustomed to the shadows, I made out a wood stove, a couch piled high with Hudson’s Bay blankets wrapped in heavy plastic, and, incongruously, a lipstick-red canoe, hull side up, in the centre of the floor.

When she spotted it, Molly slumped. “Ariel’s,” she said. For a moment, she was silent, then she turned to Gert. “What was that joke she liked about the canoe?”

Gert swatted at a blackfly. “Not a joke,” she said. “A true story. They say that one day God was fooling around, the way He does, and son of a gun if He didn’t make a canoe. Well, He’d made a lot of stuff, but that canoe really blew Him away. ‘Helluva boat,’ he said. ‘But where am I going to paddle it?’ All of a sudden, it came to Him.”

Molly smiled as she supplied the punchline. “ ‘I know,’ He said. ‘I’ll make Canada.’ ”

Drew and Fraser appeared in the doorway, each carrying an old metal cooler. Drew’s eyes found his wife. “Nice to see you cheerful,” he said.

“The canoe story hasn’t failed yet,” Gert said. “Now, the two of you are going to have to do an about-face. It’s too dusty to eat in here. Let’s get back to the dock.”

The men traded glances, then started back towards the water. The easy camaraderie that had sprung up between Drew Warren and Fraser Jackson seemed to strengthen them both. Carrying out the ordinary tasks associated with Ariel’s last trip north appeared to give them a way to share the burden of their grief.

Molly Warren, too, was working hard at focusing on the mundane. “I’ll get the tablecloth,” she said. She went into the cabin and returned almost immediately with a zippered plastic storage bag. “Let’s go,” she said, and we headed for the lake.

Up the shoreline, the old dock, mugged by one too many winters, bellied low in the water, but the dock we had landed beside was new, a T-shaped structure in which the top bar of the T had been widened to ease the loading and unloading of passengers and provisions. The men had taken the coolers to the end of the dock and were unpacking the lunch in the shadow of the plane.

Molly looked thoughtful as she watched. “Maybe it’ll help to eat on the water.”

It did. Under a sun so intense it glazed the pebbles on the lake bottom, Molly lay down the box containing her daughter’s ashes. Then she removed the tablecloth from its protective case and shook it so that it fluttered down over the new wood. The cloth was astonishing: midnight-blue velvet, appliqued with gold- and silver-lame cut-outs of suns, moons, stars, buds, blossoms, fruits, birds, fish, and animals.

Fraser knelt down to scrutinize the cloth more closely. “This belongs in an art gallery,” he said. “Where did it come from?”

“Ariel made it,” Solange said. She turned to Molly questioningly. “She was how old…?”

“She turned thirteen the day she finished it,” Molly said.

Solange looked thoughtful. “Thirteen – a time of great power for girls.”

“It was a time of great power for my daughter,” Molly said. “When she was working on this cloth, she thought she’d discovered what she wanted to do with her life.”

“She wanted to make art?” I asked.

“Something like that,” Molly said. “Of course, it was out of the question.”

The gaze Solange shot Molly was lancing, but Gert headed off trouble. “Time to eat,” she said. “There’s a point past which I don’t trust homemade mayo.” She handed around the sandwiches. The choices were egg salad or bologna and mustard. Both were on white bread, generously buttered, and both were very good. The tea Gert poured from the Thermos was good, too, strong and sweet. Our talk was not casual. The presence of the pine box upped the ante, provided a subtext of tempus fugit that made idle chatter impossible.

Fraser Jackon traced the edges of an appliqued crescent moon on the midnight-blue cloth. “The only other time I saw something like this was at a magic show. My dad worked for the CNR. Every Christmas, the company had a party for employees’ families. One year they had a magician. Looking back, my guess is the poor guy was a serious boozer. He kept dropping things, and just before his big finale, his dove escaped.” Fraser laughed softly. “For most of the kids that was the highlight of the party, but not for me. He might have been a drinker, but that old man had a cape that had the same quality this cloth has – it transported you into another dimension.”

“And you decided to create your own cape by going into theatre.” The words were vintage Solange, but the tone was warm and urgent. She wanted this outsider who had somehow been an intimate of her friend to reveal himself.

He did. “I’d never thought of theatre as a magic cape,” Fraser said slowly, “but as metaphors go, that one’s not far off the mark. I’ve been able to make a lot of ugliness disappear through my work; I’ve also been part of some astonishing moments.” His eyes never left Solange’s face. “How about you?” he asked. “What’s your metaphor?”

She surprised me. Solange was, by nature, guarded, but that morning she didn’t shield herself. “The Ice Capades.” She shrugged. “Ridiculous, no? And ugly, too.”

Fraser’s expression was grave. “You don’t have to elaborate.”

“Why not?” she said. “We’re looking for truths about one another. And one truth about me is that all of my childhood stories are ugly. This one is particularly ugly because it’s about a man. Shall I continue?”

She glanced at each of us in turn, defying us to shut her down. No one did.

“Good,” she said. “This is a story that should be heard.” The warmth that had been in her voice when she had encouraged Fraser Jackson to talk about his past had vanished. Once again, her mask was in place.

“Most of the men my mother brought home left me alone. I’d always counted that as a blessing, but there was one man I liked. His name was Raymond. He was a milkman, and he brought us treats: ice cream, butter, cheese. One day he showed up with two tickets to the Ice Capades. A customer of his had been unable to go. She gave him the tickets, and he invited me. Raymond told me our seats were up with the gods. Naif that I was, I thought that meant they were the best; of course, it just meant they were cheap, situated at the very top row of the arena. We had to climb and climb. I’d never been in such a crowd. All those people – like a tide, carrying me along.” Reflexively, she rubbed her strong, sculpted arms, her insurance against being a victim ever again. “I was pressed against their bodies. I thought I’d suffocate from the smell – wet wool, cigarette smoke, and cheap perfume. By the time we’d found our seats, the blood was singing in my ears. During the national anthem, I had to put my head between my knees to keep from fainting.

“Then the music started, and a girl came onto the ice. Her costume was covered in silver sequins. As she skated on that smooth, perfect rink, little arcs of ice shavings flew from her skates into the air. I’d never seen anything so beautiful. I’d never been so happy.” Solange gnawed her lip. “Then I felt Raymond’s hand moving between my legs. I was paralysed. When he made me caress him and he grew hard beneath my hand, I felt a coldness in my heart. I knew that if I didn’t get away, I would die, that my heart would just freeze and crack open. So I stopped being me. I willed myself into the body and mind of the girl on the ice. The silver sequins on her dress became my armour, protecting me, drawing the light to me, repelling the darkness. It was the first time in my life that I felt safe. Of course, the feeling didn’t last. It didn’t take me long to learn that women are never safe.”