Читать книгу Dead Cow in Aisle Three - H. Mel Malton - Страница 9

We have everything you’ll need for dogs and cats—from treats to feed. Your furry friends will wag their tails to see our Kountry Pantree sales!

—A jingle on MEGA FM, Laingford’s radio station

BUSINESSMAN CLAIMS NEW STORE ON BURIAL GROUND

by Calvin Grigsby, Staff reporter

Laingford businessman Archibald Watson believes that the Kountry Pantree superstore, currently being constructed at the corner of Main Street and Hwy 24, is desecrating an ancient native burial ground.

Watson, who was born and grew up in the area, told the Gazette last week that Indian artifacts had been found in the meadow overlooking Lake Kimowan. The site, soon to open as a $2.4 million shopping complex, is, according to Watson, sacred land.

“My brother found a couple of bones there once, and I found an Indian arrowhead,” he said last week. “We should get the Ministry of Indian Affairs or maybe the Heritage people to look into it.”

Watson, whose family immigrated to Canada from England in 1867, said that the Indian contribution to early life in Laingford should be recognized and preserved, not desecrated with a shopping mall.

“I know we kicked them out and everything,” he said, “but we could at least respect their cemeteries, eh?”

Contacted at the Mohawk reserve in Goose River, south of Sikwan, Chief Pauline Joseph said that her ancestors regarded the Laingford area as a canoe route only. The meadow site in Laingford would never have been used to bury their dead. “It would be like having a funeral for your mom at a highway rest stop,” she said.

Watson is the owner of Watson’s General Store, a grocery and butcher shop on Main Street.

“He said it was just a passing comment,” Susan told me. “He thinks Grigsby was out to make him look bad.” We were having coffee on the farm house porch as I waited for the arrival of Becker and his son.

“Well, the article certainly does that. Ancient burial grounds? Grasping at straws, wasn’t he?”

“Archie has promised not to speak to the press again without consulting us first,” Susan said. “And Grigsby did rather take Archie’s words out of context. They were talking about the meadow, and how the children in the community used to play there.”

“That’s sad,” I said. We sipped our coffee in silence, and I lit a cigarette—probably my last one of the day, as I didn’t want to smoke in front of the kid.

“Polly, about last evening,” Susan said.

“I wasn’t really on the phone to David Kane,” I said.

“I know. You were just making a point, and I understand why. I just wanted to apologize for pressuring you to come in the first place.”

“That’s okay. I should have said no, anyway. Next time I’ll declare a conflict of interest,” I said. “You could have found out who was on the committee quite easily somewhere else. Or you could have asked me earlier. It was the public grilling I didn’t like.”

“Quite so. I got carried away, I think. Anyway, Emma said afterwards that she hopes you might drop in on her some time. She has something she wants to give you.”

“Did you know she and Mom used to be friends?” I said.

“Well, business associates really, Polly. Your mother was very choosy about her friends.”

“You mean she didn’t have any,” I said.

“Oh, she did, you know. Your father, for one.”

“Right. And God. Very close friends with God, I seem to recall.”

Susan nodded, gazing out across the fields. My parents had been what you might call “muscular Christians”, my mother from a fervent Irish Catholic background and my Dad an evangelical Baptist. When I was born, he’d agreed to convert to Catholicism for my sake. That particular combination of religious traditions had seethed and boiled and coughed up a household that had been zealous in the extreme. God, as they say, ruled. Or at least my parents’ interpretation of God did. After they died and Aunt Susan took me in, she told me that I could choose to attend church if I wanted to, but she wouldn’t be coming along. I never returned.

Luggy, who had been splayed full length in the sun, catching some morning rays, suddenly sat up and wuffed. Rosie, ever his shadow, copied him. She was just learning to bark, little cartoon yips that were only endearing for the first couple of seconds. Moments later, Becker’s black Jeep Cherokee crested the hill and started down the long driveway into George’s valley.

“I’ll see you later, Polly. Have fun,” Susan said and left the scene, perhaps not wanting to be perceived as a chaperone.

You’d think that at age mid-thirty-something I would have moved past the sweaty palm stage in my dating career. After all, it was only a hike, and it wasn’t as if Becker and I were strangers. I squinted at the approaching Jeep and made out a small head in the passenger seat: the boy, Bryan. I realized that my nervousness was linked to Mark Becker the father, a person whom I hadn’t really met. There would be a triangular element to our outing that hadn’t been there before. Neither Becker’s son nor I would get his undivided attention, and we would not be able to give him ours. It would be a three-way thing, a dance, with each of us learning the steps for our respective roles of parent, child and romantically involved other adult. I’m a terrible dancer.

The Jeep parked and the dogs did a Hello frolic as the doors opened.

“Morning!” I called. The boy immediately got down to dog level and let Rosie climb all over him. “Dogs! A puppy! You’ve got a puppy!” he said. It was my little Webmaster of the day before, the fellow who had handed me his business card and offered to design a website for me. Becker, dressed in jeans and a plaid flannel shirt, walked around the front of the vehicle and gave me a hug.

“Hi there,” he said. “I knew your dogs would break the ice a bit. How’s it going?”

“Everything’s great,” I said, hugging him back.

“How’s the mascot coming?”

“Still in the planning stages. Maybe Bryan can give me a little advice from a smaller person’s perspective. We met yesterday, you know. At the library.”

“I saw your truck there when I went to pick him up. That’s our meeting place. Catherine and I can do the handover while he’s picking his books. It’s sort of neutral there.” I thought the term “handover” was a little peculiar, but what do I know about the language of divorce?

“He reads a lot, does he?”

“Well, he takes a lot of books out. I don’t see him reading much, though. He spends most of his time glued to the computer.”

“He offered to design me a website,” I said.

“Did he tell you how much he charges?”

“It’s a sliding scale, Dad,” Bryan said, standing up, his arms full of Rosencrantz. “I only charged you that much because Mom said you could afford it. Is this a boy dog or a girl dog?”

“It’s a girl,” I said. “Her name is Rosie, and the other one’s a male called Lug-nut.”

“They’re cool. Dad, I think she likes me. Can I get a dog?”

“I doubt it,” Becker said. “Your Mom’s probably allergic to them.”

“I promise she’s not,” Bryan said. “Anyway, we could keep it at your place. I’d come over and feed it and walk it and stuff. There’s lots of stuff about dogs on the Net. Pleeeze?” The boy’s voice had taken on that wheedling tone that hits the ear in the same way Rosie’s barking does. I think I winced.

“We’ll talk about it later,” Becker said. “Right now, let’s just have fun with these ones.”

“Here, Bryan,” I said, handing him a tote bag filled with dog stuff, the puppy-mom’s version of a diaper bag. “You can be officially in charge of their gear. There’s biscuits, leashes, dog food and pooper scooper bags in there.”

“Eeeew. Pooper scooper?”

“Yeah,” I said. “When you take dogs to public places, you have to pick up their poop so people don’t step in it.”

“I don’t have to do that, do I, Dad?”

Becker glanced at me and grinned. “We’ll take turns,” he said.

“We’ll call it being on doodie-duty,” I said.

“Gross,” Bryan said, then gazed into Rosie’s big brown eyes. “When I’m on doodie-duty, try not to poop, okay?” She licked his face, and he chuckled.

“Let’s go,” Becker said. “Dogs and boys in the back seat.”

“Our kids seem to be hitting it off,” I said, buckling myself into the passenger seat.

“They’ll keep each other occupied, anyway,” Becker said, pointedly, his expression suggesting that a little low-key fooling around might not be out of the question. This could turn out to be a good day.

Kuskawa is full of walking trails, criss-crossing the landscape like a vast recreational web. It wasn’t always so—the thick forest which makes up ninety-five per cent of the surface area around here used to be untamed, but hiking and birding have enjoyed a vogue in recent years. Perhaps because of the ageing demographic (everybody with money retires here from the city), the local municipal governments all recognized that building trails would boost the tourism economy. Every time a new trail opens, there’s a ribbon-cutting ceremony and a blurb in the paper, and another flock of fit, eager seniors bursts out of the starting gate, seeking the elusive fungus and the lesser spotted titwattle.

The Oxblood Rapids trail is one of the older ones, a natural path worn down by generations of locals and summer visitors seeking a good picnic spot by the falls. The Oxblood Falls aren’t the biggest in Kuskawa, but they’re pretty impressive, and there are picnic tables under the trees. The trail is easy to follow, carpeted in a thick layer of aromatic pine needles. The sun filters through the trees, dappling the trail with light, and there’s plenty of room to walk side by side.

Becker and I linked hands as we walked, Bryan galloping on ahead with the dogs. We hadn’t seen each other for a couple of weeks, and there was a lot to catch up on. Cottage break-ins were up that season, Becker said.

“More and more people are building summer homes up here and filling them with antiques,” he said. “Used to be, you’d furnish your cottage with garage-sale junk and old appliances. Now, they put in state of the art entertainment systems and fully stocked bars and leave the places empty for weeks at a time.”

“Pretty tempting,” I said.

“Unfortunately. The monster cottages always seem to be built in areas where jobs are scarce and people are hurting. However, theft was still a crime last time I looked.”

We chatted about the changing face of Laingford, and I found myself telling him about the League for Social Justice. I wasn’t tattling, I swear. It just made a good story.

“What do you think this group is planning to do?” Becker said.

“Oh, I don’t know. More letters to the editor, I guess. A delegation to council. Won’t do any good. David Kane’s on a roll.”

“It’ll be good to have another photo lab,” he said. “I got a bunch of prints back from Shutterbug the other day, and half of them didn’t turn out.”

“That usually has more to do with the photographer than the processing,” I said.

“What, me? A bad photographer? Not my fault I keep forgetting to take the lens cap off,” he said.

“Don’t give up your day job.”

“Actually, I was planning to quit the force and become a fashion photographer,” he said, pulling one of those disposable cameras out of his backpack. “Pose for me against that tree, would you? Good, good. Chin up. Now work with me, babe.” Bryan rushed back down the trail, his face pale, the dogs behind him, barking excitedly.

“Dad! Dad! A guy just fell over the falls and he’s floating in the water at the bottom and I think he’s dead!”