John Moss - Grave doubts

“Hi, Mandy.”

“You can’t call her that,” said Jill to her friend. “I don’t call your mother ‘Mom.’”

“Hello Detective Quin,” said Justine. “And you must be Rachel.”

“How could you tell?” said Rachel.

“Easy,” said Jill. “You’re the one with short hair. Rachel, this is Justine. Justine, this is Rachel. She is a twelfth-generation Canadian”

“Not quite,” said Rachel.

“And Justine is a Canadian ad infinitum,” said Jill.

“Meaning what?” Rachel asked, and immediately answered, “First Nations, of course. You don’t look native to me… Oh, my God, did I say that? Child, forgive me. You are of course aboriginal, looks are deceiving. Welcome to my world.”

“Actually, I’m a mixture of Swedish and Portuguese.”

“She refuses to be categorized with hyphenated citizenship.”

“My ancestry is the earth itself,” Justine pronounced. “My grandparents are buried in Mount Pleasant Cemetery. Ergo, I am of the earth: a native Canadian.”

“Well, Justine,” said Miranda, “you might find a few authentic First Nations people who would be inclined to find your position presumptuous.”

“Mandy,” said Jill, with a tone of scorn in her voice that only a fifteen-year-old girl can manifest from the depths of her illimitable experience. “Please. Don’t be condescending.”

Rachel looked the two girls over with a mixture of righteousness and envy. They somehow managed to make low-slung jeans and tight, abbreviated tank tops obscenely provocative. “You two aren’t going anywhere dressed like that.”

“No, Rachel. We’re just hanging out. But we might go trolling a bit, after Mandy goes. Wanna give it a try?”

“You’re not going anywhere until you pull up your pants, girl, and change your little sister’s top for something that fits. You don’t want to go around showing your titties like they were raspberries on over-whipped cream.”

“I don’t have a little sister and neither does Justine. We’re both orphans.”

“My parents aren’t dead.”

“But they will be, eventually,” said Jill, cheerfully. “Mandy’s an orphan. What about you, Rachel?”

“Not yet! Only halfway. My father’s alive.”

Miranda leaned against a verandah column, enjoying the absurd repartee. Rachel was scolding them as if she had known them for years. The girls were responding with good-humoured cheek. Jill’s morbidity suggested she was coming to terms with the deaths of her erstwhile parents. She envied the girls their friendship, based on mutual admiration, not convenience, as her friendships had been when she was their age. She acknowledged to herself that Rachel was as close to their age as her own. She looked at all three of them with a surge of parental passion — something new to her and awesomely satisfying.

“Have you thought any more about what I proposed?” she asked Jill.

“Yeah, I talked it over with Victoria. Justine says I can’t go.”

“And why not?”

“Because she’s my friend.”

“Then wouldn’t she want her friend to have the advantages — ”

“Of a private school!” exclaimed Jill. “I don’t understand why.”

“Victoria wants to go back to Barbados, Jill. She has kids of her own.”

“I’m her kid; she can’t leave me. She wouldn’t want to.”

“What did she say?”

“She said she’ll stay with me always.”

“And me too,” said Justine. “Victoria and me. We’re her support group.”

“Get lost,” said Jill.

“I don’t want you to go away.”

“Branksome’s in Toronto,” said Miranda.

“Mandy, it’s the wrong side of Yonge Street. And you want me to live there!”

“And enjoy it!”

“It’s called Branksome Hall. That sounds like a jail.”

“Sounds ritzy to me,” said Rachel.

“What did Victoria say?” asked Miranda.

“Ask her yourself. Victoria!” Jill called, leaning back on her elbows and casting her voice through the screen door behind her.

There was silence until Victoria appeared in the doorway. “Was I bein’ summoned, Miss Jill?” She rolled her eyes. “I ain’t birfin’ no baby, Miss Scarlet.” Then she saw Rachel. She opened the door and came out, extending her hand. “I’m Victoria,” she announced, as if it were in doubt. “I am this rude child’s significant other — not her mother and I’m not her guardian, and I’m Miranda’s housekeeper, not the young lady’s housekeeper, in spite of what she thinks, and I’m not her friend since Justine’s enough friend for anybody.”

“‘Significant other’ has sexual implications,” said Jill.

“For heaven’s sake, Jill!” Victoria snapped.

To Rachel’s surprise, the girl looked admonished. “Sorry, Victoria. This is Rachel Naismith. She’s Mandy’s friend.”

“And she’s twelfth-generation Canadian,” Justine chimed in.

“It can happen,” said Victoria. “Even ’mong us black folks.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Rachel, shaking Victoria’s hand.

“How are you? And how are you, Detective Quin? Your girl here is getting quite a handful. Off to boarding school for her — it’s the only way.”

“Victoria! You told me I could live with you always.”

“Or until you got too big to handle, whichever came first.”

Jill looked devastated, then burst into laughter. “You don’t want to go home, do you, Victoria?”

It was Victoria’s turn to look distraught. Miranda interjected. “That’s not really fair, Jill. You can’t make her choose between you and her own children.”

“But she’s always been here — ever since I was born.”

“But child, I do have my own children runnin’ around in Barbados, and they need their mommy. I wanna take you with me, if I could.”

Justine interjected. “Can we come and see you for visits and things, like on holidays? Can I come too?”

“Of course,” Victoria responded, touched by the naivete of their love. “You stand up, the both of you.” They did, and she drew each of them to her bosom, hugging them with a sweet rocking motion. “You’ll both come and stay with me any time you want. That’s okay with Miranda, isn’t it, Miranda?”

“For sure,” said Miranda. She exchanged a knowing glance with Rachel. They had talked about Jill and her need for stability. Boarding school, Rachel agreed, was the answer.

Miranda wasn’t prepared to move to Wychwood Park. Her work demanded a central location (she knew that argument was absurd, since her condo on Isabella was little closer to police headquarters). Her work did demand odd hours and a disruptive domestic life. Jill had only two more years in school after this one.

“I’m not going to leave here. I love this house and I love Justine and I’m not going to leave either one. I’ll stay here without you, Victoria. Justine and I will live here alone. It’s my house.”

“More or less,” said Miranda. “‘Less’ would be the operative word, since I’m in charge of your estate.”

“Then I’ll move in with you.”

“Highly unlikely!”

“Then I’ll move in with Justine.”

“Jill, you can’t,” said Justine. “I’m too poor. You know there’s no room. My dad and my mom, they think you’re my twin sister, but there’s no way. You’re the daughter they had to give up. I sleep on the couch.”

“You do?” exclaimed Rachel.

“Only since my little brother was born.”

“How old is he?”

“Twelve.”

Jill turned to address them all solemnly. “You know about the working poor. Well, Justine’s parents, they work and they’re poor. They don’t live in Wychwood Park. So, we’re at an impasse.”

“No,” said Rachel. “I think we can work it out. Let me have a brief whispering session with the boss lady here.” She took Miranda by the arm and walked her to the corner of the verandah.