Gail Bowen - Burying Ariel

“I don’t think you’ve met Eli Kequahtooway,” I said to Charlie. “He’s the nephew of a good friend, and he’s a big fan of yours.”

Charlie extended a hand and Eli took it.

“I’m sorry about your girlfriend,” Eli said softly.

“Thanks,” Charlie said. There was an uncomfortable silence, then Eli gestured towards an empty armchair. “This movie’s pretty cool if you haven’t got anything better to do.”

“I haven’t got anything better to do,” Charlie said. He sprawled in the chair and, within an instant, seemed wholly absorbed.

Howard looked at me. “There was a mention of gin.”

After considerably more than a mention of gin, we ordered take-out from Peking House. Howard’s treat. It was, he said, the least he could do, and I didn’t disagree.

Our order was extravagantly large and expensive. When the last of the cardboard containers had been emptied and Willie and the boys had run off their dinner, Angus and his girlfriend, Leah, went to hear the newest, hottest band, and the rest of us gravitated towards the backyard. Eli asked Charlie if he wanted to swim, and Charlie surprised me by accepting the invitation. He came back wearing one of Angus’s suits. His skin was the blue-white of skimmed milk, and his body was very thin; he projected an aura that was both vulnerable and achingly sexual. The exposure of self was disturbing, and I was relieved when he dove into the pool and his pale body disappeared beneath the water. Without exchanging a word, he and Eli began to swim laps, moving through the water with the methodical rhythm of channel swimmers headed for a distant shore.

Taylor plunked herself next to Howard. My old friend was only marginally better with children than he was with women, but he had one party trick that Taylor loved. He told Tommy Douglas’s old political parable about Mouseland with immense panache. Taylor had always been fascinated by the story about the little mice who, every four years, walked to the polls and blithely cast their ballots for an all-cat slate of candidates. That night, however, as Howard moved towards the story’s climax, my daughter was squirming. Howard had barely described the scene in which one little mouse proposes electing a government made up of mice and is locked up as a Bolshevik when Taylor streaked out of the room.

“Losing your touch,” I said to Howard. “She didn’t even stick around for ‘You can lock up a mouse or a man, but you can’t lock up an idea,’ and that’s the best line.”

“Maybe Bruce and Benny got to her,” Howard said gloomily. “Any more of that gin left?”

Luckily, my daughter was back before I had to tell Howard that, as far as he was concerned, the bar was closed. She was struggling under the weight of a canvas almost as big as she was. Howard jumped up to help her, and she sighed dramatically. “This was supposed to be a surprise, but when you told the story I knew I couldn’t wait.” Her eyes caught mine. “Jo, I won first prize in that Social Studies contest. Ms. Cousin wanted to tell you, but I thought it would be so neat if you thought you were just coming to the Legislature as a parent-helper, but it was really because I’d won.” She looked up at Howard. “Could you turn the painting so we can see it?”

Howard dropped to his knees and held the canvas out in front of him. “Jesus,” he said. “It’s Mouseland. Look, Jo, there’s the Legislature and there are all the mice, running the show. It’s great, Taylor, but who’s that old mouse – the tough-looking one with the snarl?”

“You!” Taylor crowed. “You’re in charge.”

“Maybe I’ll do a better job this time,” Howard said. He turned to me. “So fill me in. What’s this all about?”

“Actually, it was an idea Ben Jesse had to get kids thinking about studying government. All the grade twos from the city were eligible to submit projects. Livia chaired the committee that judged the entries. I knew she was going to be at the presentation tomorrow, but she didn’t breathe a word about Taylor winning.” I looked at my daughter. “Neither did you. I can’t believe you didn’t spill the beans.”

Taylor clenched her fists in triumph. “Angus says I can’t keep a secret. I kept this one right till the day before you were supposed to find out.”

“A record,” I said.

She ignored me. “The prize is you get to meet your Member of the Legislature and then you and your parent have refreshments with her or him.”

Howard hooted. “So, Jo, you’ll be breaking bread with Bev Pilon. That’ll be nice for you.”

I had tried hard to defeat Bev Pilon in the last election. She was smart, rich, and unswervingly committed to the proposition that the sleek should inherit the earth. In a real-life Mouseland, she would be Queen of the Mean Cats.

“My cup runneth over,” I said.

Taylor scrunched her face. “But you are glad I won.”

I reached out and touched her cheek. “I couldn’t be more proud. Now we’d better get that painting in the house before the mosquitoes splat into it.”

When I returned, I thought for a moment that Howard was asleep. He was stretched out on the lazy lounge with his eyes closed, but when he heard my step, he turned his head towards me. “There are good times,” he said.

I reached over and took his hand. “Plenty of them,” I said. “And there will be more.”

Across the yard, Charlie and Eli were getting out of the pool – Eli picked up a towel, tied it around his waist in the way of teenage boys, then threw another towel to Charlie. Charlie wrapped himself in his, instinctively covering as much of his body as he could.

When Eli started towards the house, Charlie called out after him. “Thanks,” he said. “That helped. It really did.”

Instead of following Eli, Howard’s son veered towards us and squatted cross-legged on the ground, turning his face so that the birthmark was away from us. “Not many people are smart enough to know that sometimes the best thing you can do to help is just be there and be quiet,” he said.

His tone was wistful and reflective, but Howard didn’t get past the words. “Goddammit, Charlie, do you think the cops are just sitting there being quiet, or do you think they might actually be out there asking questions and getting answers?”

“I just meant I was grateful to Eli, Dad.” Suddenly, there was an edgy danger in Charlie’s voice. “I understand that you need me to work out answers for the police’s questions before they ask me,” he said.

“I need you to tell the truth, son.” Howard’s words had a simple Biblical force.

So did Charlie’s response. “I’ll tell the truth,” he said.

The darkness had settled. It was a relief to listen without the distraction of Charlie’s face. Nightfall seemed to free him, too, allow him to become a truer self, one in whom I began to discern flashes of the boy Marnie had raised and, for a time, Ariel had loved.

Howard breathed deeply. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s start with the big one. Did you kill Ariel?”

“No.”

Howard nodded, seemingly accepting his son’s one-word answer as sufficient. It wasn’t enough for me, but I could feel myself moving towards belief in Charlie’s innocence.

“Then the next step,” Howard said, “is to find out if you know anything that will help the police find out who did kill her.” “All right,” Charlie said.

There was an awkward silence. Howard shot me a look that called for help. “So, Jo. You’ve been closer to this than we have. Any thoughts?”

“That was smooth,” I said. Charlie laughed quietly. Encouraged, I continued. “I guess my first thought is Solange,” I said. “Charlie, when you two clashed today, you told Solange that Ariel was afraid of her. Was that just a heat-of-the-moment accusation or was it true?”