Grave Concern, page 12
Now Kate stumble-danced through her log prison, waiting for light and hope. She buried her nose in the coat’s collar and sniffed. The smell of J.P. was unmistakable, and sexy. At one point her fingers found — how had they not before? — a worn fabric edge, the lip of a pocket. She felt the other side. Yes! Two enormous pockets, slung from hip to thigh on either side. She plunged her numb hands in.
“Who’s there — ooooww!” Kate spun around to face the intruder. Too fast. Pain shot through her from head to toe.
Bill Chambers walked out from behind a fifties-era metal shelving unit Kate had bought from the town library when it closed for lack of funds.
“Easy, there. Just me,” he said, a tad sheepishly, Kate thought. “Checking your circuit box. Had some electrical trouble in the building. We’re checking every office.”
“Goddamn it, Bill,” Kate backed toward the wall and steadied herself, holding her side. “Why didn’t you tell me you were in here? You scared me half to death.”
“Ah, Kate! Didn’t hear you come in. Don’t bother about me — I’ll be gone in a flash.”
Bill lied better than Greta, but not much. Kate, clinging to the wall, did nothing but breathe and stare blankly, until Bill said, “Go on. I’m done now. Everything in order. Glad to see you up and around. Ribs all healed, I hope?”
With this, he made a beeline for the door, which only confirmed his guilt. Bill Chambers would rather hang around and bend any ear alive than do almost anything else. Whole working mornings of Kate’s had evaporated in the ephemeral stream of consciousness that was Bill’s conversational style.
Now it was her turn to detain him. “Uh, Bill.”
His hand was on the door handle. “Yup.”
“There’s been a delivery, of my flowers, to the bowling office. Could you let me in?”
Bill walked around the building ahead of her, loudly jingling a massive ring of keys. He opened the door and stood with his hand on the knob, forcing Kate to edge agonizingly past him to retrieve the flowers.
“Anything else you need now? Happy to help.”
The look on Bill’s florid face so obviously indicated the opposite that Kate was tempted to concoct some further request. But no. She had no mental energy to spare. She had to focus. Places to go and things to do. Dead people to see.
“No thanks, Bill. By the way, I’ll be back in the office now on my regular days.”
“Good … good,” Bill said. “Very glad to hear it.”
At the graveyard, Kate opened her car trunk to reveal the rubble of ages. Oh, man, there must be a special form of entropy beyond known laws of physics that came into effect when people worked out of their cars. Come the first pain-free day, she would organize this mess. Meanwhile, she located trowels and grass clippers, plastic bags, and the usual assortment of stuff she would use on what she now thought of as “her” graves. She was just closing the lid on a lively straw hat, conscious for the first time of an ongoing racket — some rowdy crow up in the trees — when it appeared. The Thing. In the corner of her eye. A movement in the bush, on the north side, as before.
Not too distant from J.P.’s forest grave. Kate dropped her armload of paraphernalia on the trunk and began mashing the heels of her hands against her temples, sticking out her elbows like the rabbit ears people once had on their TVs. In her neighbourhood, growing up, when a kid said something incredible, the others pretended to change channels like this. Oookay, not such a good idea. She’d heard a crackling sound. Her ribs or a branch in the woods? Gingerly, Kate lowered her arms. Breathed. Yoga wisdom: Breathe into the pain. Right.
Well, whatever the Thing was, it was long gone, this elusive master of deception. The question was, was it or wasn’t it … embodied? Still, the channel-changing must have had some effect, because Kate’s spook factor fell off sharply. Her powers of logic kicked in. Trepidation would get no one anywhere. And the other approach, standing around with big guns and bravado, was likewise of little use.
What was needed to tackle the problem was Logic. A certain cold calculation. Whatever this thing was — that she and others found so hateful or creepy — obviously thought the same of them. Like her landlord, Bill Chambers, caught red-handed, IT likely was as afraid of her as she of it. Which didn’t mean it wasn’t up to no good.
Kate picked up the junk from the back of the car and walked over to her first plot. As she clipped and trimmed, polished stone and arranged the somewhat peaked “fresh” flowers, she noticed someone at the opposite corner of the graveyard near the road. A woman in a dark jacket. Bobbing, irregularly, up and down. Kate pondered this for a while, but conjured little explanation, other than possible religious ritual, overzealous genuflection, perhaps. In any case, she must not allow herself to be distracted. There were still her other graves to finish, and, of course, Ho Lam’s to get to by six.
Kate was just about done, having rendered a particularly moving performance of “I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills,” when the faraway bobbing figure bobbed up suddenly from a nearby grave, scaring Kate half to death.
Kate’s hand flew to her chest. “Greta! Next time, give me some warning, would ya?”
Greta pulled a smile. The teeth were so prominent, Kate thought of the Cheshire Cat. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”
“What’re you doing out here, anyway?” Kate happened to know Greta’s immediate family — parents, a brother, and a sister — were still among the quick. “Business slow at Krebs Squared?”
“Oh, you know, bit of research. Broaden horizons.”
Greta’s tone raised Kate’s already roused suspicions to peak level. Okay. No more pussy-footing around. “How broaden, exactly?” said Kate.
Greta declined to look her in the eye.
Mmm. So whatever Greta was up to was going to be bad for business. Kate’s business.
“A bit of research, that’s it.”
Now Kate noticed the Blackberry or iPad or whatever it was. Presumably Greta was collecting names from graves and punching them into a database. This would explain the bobbing.
“And what, if you don’t mind my asking, will you do with this research?”
“Confidential, sorry.” The Cheshire Cat morphed into Sylvester stalking Tweety Bird.
“You wouldn’t by any chance be expanding into the grave-tending side of things?”
“Sorry, corporate confidentiality. I’d love to share, Kate, but my hands are tied.”
Tongue’s tied, more like, thought Kate, shooting her flimsiest smile back. “Well, my business here is done for the day,” she said, and began to collect her things. Fed up with the company, she took off at a brisk pace toward her car. First day back at work, lovely day, perfect psalm. Life had been good. At her own painful expense, Kate picked up the pace.
“Hey, Kate!” Greta’s now-distant voice echoed through the clearing.
Kate slowed slightly, but didn’t look around. She couldn’t, in any case.
“Kate!” Greta’s voice was nearer, but still well behind.
Kate continued across the lawn. After a while, she heard a deep whistling, Greta’s wheezing as she arrived beside Kate at last, chest heaving, hands on knees.
“As — asthma. Wait a sec,” Greta gasped, tried the gruesome grin, and failed. “Something I wanted to — uh! — ask. Not — uh! — business.”
Kate was taken aback. She couldn’t imagine what else she and Greta would have to talk about. “Yeah?”
“Well — uh! — a little to do with business,” Greta corrected. “Sort of a deal we could make.”
“A deal?”
“A trade, I guess you’d — uh! — call it. My intel for yours.”
“What possible intel could you have that I would need?” Kate turned to leave.
“You’d be surprised,” Greta said.
Kate stopped again. “Yes, I would.”
“How about something J.P. told me years ago?”
Kate’s heart began its pitter-pat at the sound of his name, but she managed outward calm. Greta was just trying to get Kate jealous, flaunt some flimsy connection with J.P. to get in her grill.
“Don’t give a flying fart,” Kate said.
“Something about you,” Greta went on.
Okay, so J.P. had said something to Greta about liking or hating Kate a hundred years ago. The guy was dead, for Pete’s sake. They were all grown up.
“Big whup,” said Kate, as she’d heard some kid say the other day. She thought it rather cute.
“It is a big deal,” Greta said, her eyes sliding down and away, which Kate took to mean she was making it all up. The only big deal Kate could imagine was that Greta had managed to keep her mouth shut about anything all these years. She had to be bluffing.
“I know all about me already,” Kate said. “More than enough. So you can drop your little game, Greta, and just ask your questions.”
“Okay,” retorted Greta, gaining respiratory strength. “Names and phone numbers. Best out-of-town customers, contacts, that kind of stuff.”
“Nothing doing,” said Kate. “You’re treading on my toes, there. I’d advise you start with the telephone book. Pine Rapids is covered in fifteen pages, as I’m sure you know. And the Valleyview phone book covers the rest.” She thought about suggesting the large print version, but resisted the urge. Anyway, the whole thing was ridiculous, and more than Greta deserved.
Greta, who had glanced down at Kate’s mention of toes, looked up again, embarrassed.
“That’s just lazy,” said Kate to no one in particular as though finishing some conversation in her head. She pushed on toward the car, resisting with every fibre the urge to moan. She dumped the stuff in the trunk, and walked around to get in. Hand on handle, she noticed a new look on Greta’s face. Quizzical.
“What now, Greta?”
Greta coughed a hacking cough, which seemed to do the trick, then grinned. “Clients,” she said. “Yours seem very devoted. Sticky, Father calls it. I just admire your business sense so much. How do you do it, Kate?”
Kate had to laugh at that. Business sense? Highly debatable. But maybe she knew what Greta was getting at. “Whatever success I’ve had,” Kate said, “has to do with liking my clients. And my work. That’s all I know.”
Greta supported her heaving frame against Kate’s car.
“Now, if you don’t mind,” said Kate, looking pointedly at the spot where Greta was leaning, “I’m in a rush.”
Greta stood reluctantly back from the car and watched as Kate started up the moody engine. But as the wheels began to crunch gravel, Greta gestured for Kate to stop. Kate braked suddenly and opened the door a touch, the window being finicky.
“What now, Greta.”
“You liked him, didn’t you,” Greta said, leaving little doubt as to him’s antecedent. “I mean a lot.”
Okay, so the encounter with Grinning Greta had her rattled. Lovelorn envy aside, was there something Greta possibly could know about Kate that Kate didn’t already, and would want to? She turned into the driveway, limped out of the car, and tumbled up the steps into the house. She grabbed the bottle of Carmenère from the cupboard, slopped some in a glass, and eased down onto a straight kitchen chair. The first sip had an instant, if small, effect on the busted ribs. The second claimed more success. By the third, Kate was able to unzip her jacket. She kicked off her boots and manually lifted her legs slowly, one by one, onto a second chair. Then remembered. Damn! She let her feet drop, stashed the wine on the counter, grabbed her wallet, and tottered back out to the car. She only just made it to Ho Lam’s before six.
Kate stood at the rental counter, arrows of pain shooting every which way, reluctant to open her mouth lest it spew bitter bile. Leonard looked up through smudged glasses as he handed her the films he’d held back. “I found Branagh’s As You Like It. Would you like it as well?”
Kate’s anger exploded in a laugh, which immediately folded her double on the counter. “Yeah, yeah, I’d like it, too,” came her muffled voice.
“Ms. Smithers! Kate? Are you okay?” Leonard came around the counter to her side, and put a hand gently on her shoulder.
“Uh, in a word, no,” Kate said into the Formica. “Think I overdid it today. You got a chair?”
Leonard ran to the back and returned with a wooden chair. “Please, please. Sit.”
Kate groaned. “Thanks, I really appreciate this. I must say the service here is great.”
“Still the ribs?” Leonard said.
Kate let out another bone-rattling groan. Leonard jogged to the back again and came back with a glass of water. “Will this help?” he said.
“Got any drugs with that?” said Kate.
Leonard disappeared for a third time and returned with a bottle of Tylenol.
Kate poured several out in her hand and stuffed them in her mouth.
“That should do it,” Leonard smiled. “Take as much time as you like,” he said, and began punching numbers into the cash. “I’ll just charge you for Shakespeare in Love. She’s the Man and As You Like It are on the house.”
Numb and slightly stupefied, Kate only watched. After a while, the drug kicking in, the pain started to ease. “Why are you so good to me, Leonard? What have I done to deserve this, except be a total ass, flying in here late and moaning in your ear?”
Leonard looked down at the counter.
“Leonard, is that a blush?”
Leonard put on a thick accent. “Asian nevah brush. Yerrow culah skin.”
“Aggh, give it a break!” Kate scolded.
Leonard continued to work around the counter, counting up cash and returning bits and pieces to their rightful places on various shelves. Kate watched his slim body glide with ease around counters and shelves, the black jeans nicely enhancing the tight butt. An outrageous idea popped into her head. “Hey, since you’re done here for the day … I’ve just popped the cork on some Carmenère. Well, screw cap. Would you like to come for dinner? I have no idea what we’ll have.”
Leonard glanced at her rib-region. “Now?”
“Now. Yeah.”
“You’re feeling okay, you sure?”
“Never better.”
“I doubt that,” Leonard said, “but sure, okay. I’d like that. Just tell me to leave if it gets to be too much.”
Over a cheese omelette, jasmine rice, and a couple of wizened tomatoes crying out for euthanasia (tonight, death by grilling), Kate described her planned “project” to Leonard. This, of course, necessitated explaining the mysterious graveyard sightings, the bar encounter with Prakash Gupta, the ill-starred cemetery stakeout (omitting specifics of the object that had tripped her), and the meeting notice she’d spied in the newspaper. They discussed various explanations, natural and supernatural, for the Thing. Which led to discussion of religious belief in general and the concept of an afterlife. Leonard introduced the idea of parallel existences, an idea engendered by quantum physics. It was within the realm of possibility, Leonard suggested, at least from a mathematical standpoint, that not just one but an almost infinite number of parallel worlds, containing our individual potential existences, actually existed.
“Potential. You mean, if someone had made a different choice somewhere along the way, that other life they would have led is actually going on somewhere?”
“Yeah, exactly,” said Leonard. “At least, that’s how I understand it. But I’m really just a rank amateur. My dad says I have a ‘Ph.D. from Unavahsaty of CBC.’ ”
Kate laughed, but carefully, so as not to inflame the ribs. “My dad always claimed I majored in ‘PostModCanFemLit.’ ”
Now Leonard laughed. “And did you?”
“Well, in a sense, for a while, but not the way he meant.”
“What about him? What did he do?”
“Electrical engineer. About as different from me as you could get.”
“And your mom?”
“Housewife. Although in her parallel life, she was, I think, some kind of artist, or artisan. She loved stuff like fabric and tapestry. Weaving. Oh, and antiques. Old upholstery. Maybe, in her potential life, she was — is? — into something like that. You know, something passionate.”
Leonard said nothing to this, and Kate sat back in her chair sipping the dregs of the Carmenère, of which she’d had more than her share. It occurred to her she hadn’t been this drunk in a long while. Oops, plus the Tylenol she’d had at Ho Lam’s store. Kate closed her eyes and let her head fall back. And knew no more until waking from a delicious dream in the night, in her bed, fully clothed, ribs sore, and bladder bursting.
The movies were instructive. Kate watched how cross-dressing actors played the other sex, taking note of body language and tricks of clothing and speech. She dearly hoped it would not come to speech, that she could remain silent and observe. Convincing anyone she was a man through movement and clothing would be hard enough. She had thought of asking Leonard to do the deed and go to the meeting for her, but at no time during their mutual and animated rehearsal of her plan did he offer. This was no oversight on his part, Kate realized, but rather a refusal to release her from a responsibility she had brought on herself. And maybe just a little apprehension on his part? Well, so be it. This was her crazy idea, the masque hers to carry off or piss away.
Leonard did, however, lend her some duds: men’s jeans (out-of-date, wide cargo-style, only just bearable around Kate’s healthy thighs) and a bomber-style wind shell sporting the name of his softball team. (Another surprise: Leonard was the star pitcher.) His footwear was far too large, but Kate located some old Grebs of her dad’s, which were only a couple of sizes too big. A hat of some kind would be important, to cover her hair and hide her face. Kate was happy to see a large-ish ball cap in the bag of clothes Leonard dropped off at Grave Concern. (Her father’s wardrobe had offered none; to the end of his days, Dean Smithers wore, without irony, homburgs and fedoras, firm in the view that a ball cap worn off the diamond, like a T-shirt worn in the street, was a social scourge. At times — was she hopelessly old-fashioned? — Kate could see his point.) Kate could only hope Leonard’s cap would meet Leonard’s collar and hide the feminine neck beneath — at least, what remained of the feminine in the ongoing hormonal crisis.
