While my sister and brother-in-law continued to comfort Mother, I poked at the fire, poured myself another cup of coffee and returned to my chair. Erin, her interest no longer tweaked, plugged back into her iPod, while Megan picked at a thread in her skirt as she cast anxious glances at her father.
In a matter of minutes Mother was drying her eyes and brushing Jean and Leslie aside, saying, “I’m okay now.”
I waited a few more minutes before asking, “Mother, you received letters like these many years ago. Did they have drawings, too?”
It took such a time for her to answer that I thought she might not have heard my question, but as I was about to repeat it, she said, “I don’t remember, it was so long ago.”
“Did they also come from Iqaluit?”
She remained quiet for a moment before answering. “I don’t recall that name, but it seems to me some of them did come from some place in the far north. I remember being surprised by the location.”
“And it wasn’t Frobisher Bay, Iqaluit’s former name?”
“No, it was a place I wasn’t familiar with. When I looked it up on the map, I recall thinking how odd; it was on Hudson’s Bay, very far from where your Father used to travel, which was mainly to Baffin Island. At least that’s what he told me.”
“Can you remember what any of the letters said? Or even how many there were?”
“There weren’t many. Maybe two or three in total. The first came not long after your father’s plane disappeared. It asked for money, a lot of money in return for information about your father. I didn’t like its tone, so I passed it onto the police, who said the man who’d sent it was dead. How ridiculous using the name of someone who was dead. Obviously the sender wasn’t very smart.”
“What about the other letters? Did they ask for money?”
“They did, but not enough to bother the police. I just threw them away. They weren’t worth my time.”
“What about the timing of these letters?”
“As I told you, the first one came one or two years after your father disappeared. The others maybe ten or so years later, say the early 1980s.”
“And you didn’t receive any more until now?”
“No, dear.”
“Is there any possibility that the same person sent both sets of letters?”
“I have been wondering that myself. As I recall, the letters that came in the 1980s were written like these latest ones, in a roundish rather childlike handwriting, the way a person writes when first learning. But apart from that similarity, I couldn’t say whether it is the same person.”
“Can you remember what the letters said? Or the name of the sender?”
“No, not at all,” she replied with a sudden abruptness as she placed her cup back down on its saucer. “Children, it’s getting late and I’m tired. I think I will go up to bed. But you continue visiting. You haven’t seen each other in such a long time.”
She raised herself painfully from the sofa. “I’m afraid I haven’t been a very good hostess. Leslie, you know where the liqueurs are. Please help yourselves.”
She gave us all a gentle peck on the cheek and shuffled, cane in hand, out of the den towards the elevator that Grandpa John had had installed after a stroke had left him partially paralyzed.
I waited until I heard the elevator’s folding brass door clink shut and the motor start up before saying, “I think Mother remembers more than she is letting on. What do you think?”
“I will admit I had a similar impression.” Leslie poured himself a snifter of Armagnac and offered us our choice from Mother’s eclectic collection of liqueurs.
Although I hadn’t had a liqueur since going dry over three years ago, I felt very tempted. All this delving into the past was just a little too nervewracking. Nonetheless, I resisted and poured myself another cup of coffee instead.
As I watched my sister enjoying her blueberry grappa, I said, “It’s too bad you didn’t read the letter you found in the garbage.”
She nodded then paused as if mulling over a thought before saying, “You know, I do remember something. These drawings have reminded me of it.”
She ran her eyes over the three pictures lying on the coffee table. “In the same waste basket were bits of paper, as if something had been ripped into shreds. Some of the pieces had parts of a drawing on them. I remember being surprised at the time that mother would tear up a piece of art, given her love of it. I also remember seeing the head of an Eskimo with a hood.” She picked up one of the drawings. “Very much like these ones.”
“Did you happen to read the letter?”
“No…no I couldn’t. It had been ripped too.”
She thoughtfully sipped her grappa. She seemed to be savouring it so much, it was all I could do not to rush over to the liquor cabinet and pour myself one.
“And you weren’t tempted to try to put it together?”
She started to shake her head, then changed her mind. “You’re right. I was about to, but Mother came into the room and grabbed the wastebasket from me. She was really angry. In one of her snippy moods.”
“Too bad Caroline doesn’t still work here. She might’ve seen the letter.” I paused. “Shelley was the cook back then, maybe she knows something.”
The kitchen was as spotless as only Shelley could make it. In the days when Mother and my stepfather, that is my uncle—I never knew what to call him—had big parties, within an hour of the last guests leaving, Shelley would have it equally spotless. Although Mother would hire extra help for the occasion, Shelley would invariably kick them out after the bulk of the clean-up had been completed and finish the last polishing on her own. It was her realm. She had to put her final stamp on it.
Shelley was resting in her creaking bentwood rocker with her feet up on a small stool.
“Mind if I join you?” I asked. As I child, I would sometimes sneak down after I’d supposedly gone to bed to nestle in the kitchen’s welcoming warmth. This was invariably after yet another disagreement with Mother or Jean. Shelley would give me hot chocolate in my special Montreal Olympics mug and of course a chocolate chip cookie. Then she would settle into her rocker and lend a sympathetic ear. It wasn’t that she would offer advice, she never did. It was more her quiet rocking back and forth listening to whatever I had to say. Once I’d spilled everything out, I would perk back up and feel ready to take on life’s next offering.
“You don’t need to ask, lass. Of course you’re welcome. Here, have a cuppa.” She poured me a cup of tea. “And a wee dram.” And before I had a chance to refuse, she poured a good measure from her special bottle of twelve-year-old MacCallan—she only drank the best—into a tumbler and added a bit more to her own.
Not wanting to hurt her feelings, I clinked glasses with her. Although the spreading tingle of the whiskey felt good, really good, I was nonetheless determined to drink only a sip or two.
“This is quite the kitchen,” I said, my eyes roaming over the sparkling granite counters and gleaming stainless steel. “When did this happen?”
“Last year. It was your sister’s doing. She thought the old one needed a facelift. But I tell ya, Maggie, I do miss the old charmer. It was a place where a tired old body could sink back and relax and not worry about a wee bit of dust. But this monstrosity with its shiny surfaces drives me crazy. I’m forever removing smudges and the like.” And with that, she got out of her chair to shine a spot on the counter where she must’ve seen a smudge.
I laughed. “But if you shine it up too much, you might rub the surface away.”
She eased herself back into her rocking chair and winked. “That’s the plan, lass. Then perhaps your mother would give me back my nice white counters. But you’re not here to listen to an old woman grumble. Tell me what ails ye.”
“Nothing really, I just wanted to sit down for a chat for old times’ sake. But before we begin, I do have a question. I think you’re probably aware that Mother has recently received some anonymous letters about Father.” I took another sip of the whiskey, just one more. It was delicious. I’d forgotten how smooth a single malt could be.
“Aye, so Hannah tells me. Mind you, I knew something was amiss. Your mother’s been terribly quiet lately, like something was bothering her.”
Since she had known Father and had lived with us through the unsettling time of his long drawn-out death, I figured she had a right to know, so I told her about the letters and the drawings.
When I’d finished, I asked, “Mother received similar letters sometime in the 1980s. I’m wondering if you remember those.”
“Aye, I remember.” She took a long sip of her whiskey. I joined her. “Caroline told me about them. They upset your Mother, they did. Something terrible. I remember all the door-slamming upstairs. Could hear it clear through the house. She was that angry.”
“Funny, I don’t remember that part. I just remember the hushed whispers with Uncle Harold. I overheard him telling Caroline that if any more letters came, she was to give them to him instead of Mother. It was Jean who found out what they were about.”
“You were probably at school when she opened them up. But it did put Caroline in a bit of a predicament, for she didn’t want to lie to your mother. And another one did come.”
“It did? Do you know what was in it?”
She shook her head. “Caroline never saw the letter. Your uncle took it from her and hid it away in his desk.”
“Damn, I was hoping you could tell me if there were any drawings with the letter. What about the earlier letters? Did you ever learn what was in them?”
The soothing warmth of the whiskey was beginning to make me feel mellow. I relaxed further into the chair.
She shook her head again. “No. Caroline and I just knew it was something hurtful. And figured because they came from the far north, they might be about your father.”
“You knew where they came from?”
“Oh yes, Caroline was quite curious when she saw the postmark that said Churchill. She even got out the map to show me where it was on Hudson Bay. Not as far north as where your father’s plane got lost, but still a long ways away.”
At least Mother’s memory hadn’t failed her in this aspect. And I agreed with her. Churchill was a very long way from Iqaluit, easily a thousand kilometres or more. And because it was situated in the province of Manitoba, it wasn’t even considered real Arctic. It did seem very strange that someone living in that town would know anything about Father’s death.
“Curious you should mention drawings,” Shelley continued. “I recollect Caroline mentioning a drawing she saw on your uncle’s desk not long after she gave him the strange envelope. One of those Eskimo ones, like your father used to collect.”
“Do you know what it was about?”
“I think Caroline said it was just some Eskimos standing by an igloo. She couldn’t see what all the fuss was about.”
“Do you know what happened to it?”
She shook her head again. “Sorry, can’t help you there.” And she poured both of us another “wee dram”, which I didn’t for a second think to refuse.
Realizing I’d probably exhausted Shelley’s memories, I turned the conversation to her brother’s family. Although they lived on the other side of the globe in Scotland, they were Shelley’s only family, and she took great interest in their doings.