I TOOK HIGHWAY 31 FROM KASLO, north along Kootenay Lake. Dean’s map and directions seemed clear enough, yet I managed to get myself lost once I left the highway. At least I could be sure no one was following me. Finally I managed to navigate the trailer over a narrow, rutted road towards a low sprawling house surrounded by new, half-finished outbuildings. A fence made of wire and lumberyard tail ends ran along one side of the access drive and around the vegetable patch. This looked like the only cleared area. The rest was badly overgrown: not a tree, bush or weed seemed to have been touched. A large woodpile proved this wasn’t entirely so. A number of dogs of assorted ancestry loudly greeted my arrival. No one seemed to notice. I parked and walked around, looking. The area in front of the house, along and between the outbuildings, gave the appearance of a well-organized construction and junkyard. There was lumber in stacks, two-by-fours, boards, fence posts and scrap. Pile of builder’s gravel. Rolls of wire fencing. Then there was a rough corral full of bottles — large and small, white, green and amber. Next plastic articles — pails, jugs, containers in various sizes. A heap of tin cans. Inside the fence at the edge of the vegetable garden a large covered compost pit. Recycling was a way of life here. Whether on principle or out of sheer economic necessity, this wasn’t a place of waste. Except for tools. Sadly I spotted a steel rule, then a can of rusty nails and a hammer. Other good tools. Couple of hundred dollars worth of them deteriorating, uncared for. I poked around an old pickup, two wrecks of small Japanese cars and a newish, beautifully kept Honda 400 bike. By now I was at one corner of the house. Two large propane tanks marked this the kitchen side. Navigating a full rain barrel, under a rain spout dangerously at head level, I glanced at the window. The still face of a woman showed white inside. I waved to acknowledge contact, stepped into the porch and opened the door. It led directly into a large, dark farm kitchen. It was full. A long homemade table to seat at least ten ran along the window wall. Benches and old wooden chairs crowded around it. A functionally beautiful black and white wood-burning kitchen stove sent heat out in waves. Rough shelves holding an assortment of dry food covered the walls. Odd bits and pieces of furniture, kitchen cabinets and two enormous shabby armchairs took up the rest of available space. There were stacks of waste paper, two garbage pails — one for compost, one for burnable waste, a wooden box almost full of rinsed cans and bottles awaiting disposal outside. Firewood in a waist-high box. A refrigerator and, on a small metal kitchen table, a propane camp stove, shining copper pipes connecting them to the tanks outside. The unlit lamps were all kerosene. The place had no electricity.
I picked my way around a grouping of cat food dishes, disturbing a fat all-white beast which looked up at me with runny red eyes. Silhouette of a woman was dark against the window. I wondered how long she had been watching me outside. I tried to see myself with her eyes. Jeans, boots, a lumber jacket. Tall, dark, and probably older than any of the women in the commune. The jeep was fine; the trailer might be suspect, too fancy. But all in all I figured I would get by.
Neither of us had spoken yet. I moved closer, to where the pale light of day fell on her face. Her dark outline dissolved into a slim figure about 5’4” clad in layers of well worn clothes. Delicate features and dark eyes looking at me calmly from under home-cut hair.
“Hello,” I said tentatively.
“Hello,” she answered. We stared at each other, then grinned simultaneously.
“Like some coffee?” she said, moving towards the stove. Relieved, I sat down on one of the chairs by the table.
“Yeah, thanks,” I said.
“Travelling?” she asked, pouring two mugs full of steaming black liquid from an enamelled tin pot which must have held half a gallon.
“Kind of. My name’s Helen. I’m from Vancouver.”
“I’m Nancy. I live here.”
“I figured that.” She brought the mugs to the table, placed one in front of me, then took hers to the other end and perched on a bench. Light from the window flooded the long table between us. We could see each other clearly now.
“How did you hear about us?” She paused and when I didn’t answer continued. “In summer we get lots of sisters passing through. You’re the first this year. Welcome.” It was obviously quite a long speech for her.
“Thanks. I was in the area and thought I’d stop by and visit with Carol. Haven’t seen or heard of her in ages. So I drove over to Dean’s and he told me she might be here. Is she around?”
The second I mentioned Carol, Nancy became stiller than ever, if that was possible. Her eyes never left my face. I felt my lies crawling all over it. I was committed now.
“Carol?” She didn’t bother looking puzzled. “So many women drop in on us, stay a while and move on. Carol? Maybe she was using a new name.” That took me back momentarily but then I understood.
“You mean like Sky or Thorn or Lilith,” I said. She smiled slowly.
“Sure, what else?”
“No, that doesn’t sound like Carol. Her last name’s Latimer.”
“I never bother with last names,” Nancy said. We weren’t getting anywhere.
I took a chance. “Some old friends of hers from California used to call her Ray, I recall now. Does that help?” If it meant anything to her, she wasn’t letting on. Her face held no expression. I would hate playing poker with this young woman.
“No.” It was a very definite monosyllable. “Well, anyway. Sorry your friend’s not here. But you are welcome to stay for a meal with us.”
Sound of a motorbike invaded the quiet kitchen. Both Nancy and I looked out to see a slight anonymous figure encased in black leather jacket, jeans and high buckled boots circle the yard on an enormous blue Yamaha. Head and features totally hidden under a blue-and-silver helmet and goggles.
“Aha,” said Nancy. A minute later the biker burst into the house. Actually she just opened the door and walked in but it felt as if 130 pounds of positive energy had entered. She stood still for a split second accustoming her eyes to the dimness inside, took off her helmet, freeing a shock of bright hair which fell to her shoulders.
“Any coffee?” she asked, walking briskly towards the stove. Without waiting for an answer she poured out a mug, moved to the table and gave me a glance full of warmth and curiosity.
“You belong to that rig?” she asked. I nodded.
“Nice.” She sat down and sipped her coffee. “Once I get biking out of my system I’m getting a jeep.” Dismissing me and the attraction of jeeps she turned to Nancy.
“Hey, Nance. How come no one except me around here ever puts away any tools? I go away for a couple of days and the yard’s full of them! Damn it! At our last house meeting we agreed to look after them with some respect. Even Artemis promised. She’s the worst …”
“Cool it for a minute, Laura,” Nancy interrupted the outburst. “Helen, this dyke-on-a-bike is Laura. When she’s not visiting her numerous lovers all over B.C. and Washington State, she hangs out here.”
Laura laughed. She couldn’t be more than twenty-two.
“Just as well. Or there wouldn’t be a usable tool or a machine of any kind in operation left in this place. Hey, Nance. Someone else had better learn all that stuff. I’m moving back to Victoria.”
“When?” Monosyllable again from Nancy.
“Soon. I guess Helen could have my space if she’s planning to stay. You look like you’d be good with tools, Helen. They could use you.” Laura went on a mile a minute. Nancy sighed.
“Laura. Take it easy. Helen’s just looking for a friend. Called Carol or maybe Ray.”
“Carol? Hey, wasn’t that .…” Laura began.
“No. That was Carrie,” Nancy interrupted her firmly.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Laura sounded confused but she got the message, dismissed the subject and went on to the next thing on her mind. “Hey, Nance. Any news on that part-time job you were after? Bookkeeping for the lumberyard. Would be great! Get us real deals on scrap. Hey, where’s the crew anyway? Isn’t this a building day or is my schedule all off?”
“They’re moving the privy and filling up the old hole, remember?” Now the danger was over Nancy spoke indulgently.
“Do I remember! Is it ever about time.” Laura held her nose. “Guess I’ll go give a hand. How are you at privy-moving, Helen?” Before Nancy could head me off I was up on my feet and following Laura out of the house like a tail on a comet.
“How many of you live here, Laura?” I asked as we crossed the yard, picking up tools as we went.
“Right now? Only four. Me and Nance, Rita, and Artemis. We stayed the winter together. I guess Chris will move in over the summer. She visits Rita a lot anyway. Probably here now, helping. The place is tight for more than five or maybe six.”
I followed Laura with an armload of tools into a shed. It was fitted out with a workbench, pegboard for tools, jars and cans of nails, screws and an assortment of the odds and ends that accumulate in the country. Laura wiped, then examined every tool before putting it away.
“Look at this chisel. A chip out of it. That Artemis! Funny, she’s good with wood. But anything made of metal disturbs her karma. She says.” It was obviously a favourite complaint.
“How do you live? Make a living, I mean. Pay mortgage, gas, buy groceries?”
“Summer work, mostly. Last year we all worked on road construction. As flag women. I guess if ARC is hiring again this season that’s what the rest of them will be doing. It’s good money, better than any women’s work we could get. Now me, I’m going back to Victoria.”
“How come?” I prodded.
“D’you know Victoria? Geritol City. And the lesbian community is all couples, nesting. Not my scene at all! Wouldn’t go back there except I’ve got this chance to get into a training program. I want to learn a trade. Mechanic. It’s real hard to get in. And then once you’re in the men give you a real hard time. So many women quit. And that gives them an excuse not to accept any more. It’s a vicious circle. But I don’t care, I’ll stick it out.”
“Yeah, I bet you will. Good luck,” I said, and then as if suddenly struck with a random thought I continued “Did Carol work on the road with you last summer? When did she leave?”
“Carol? I thought it was Carrie.” Laura wasn’t really interested in either Carol or me. “Whoever, we all worked for ARC. Buddy boy Dean is always good for a couple of weeks or months of work for us every summer. D’you know Dean?”
“I’ve met him. He and Carol were lovers, weren’t they? But I didn’t know he worked for ARC.”
“Sure. Project supervisor or something. Just seasonal work but he makes plenty. He’s got a neat truck. Souped-up four-by-four, goes like stink.” She’d ignored my implied question on Carol’s relationship to Dean. Her mind was on his souped-up truck. Dean didn’t hold her attention.
We made our way past the house to where from behind a dense jungle of growth, the sounds of young women’s voices reached us. A well-worn path led past the unmistakable previous location of the outhouse. The hole remained unfilled but the contents had been liberally covered with lime.
“Have to fill that in next,” said Laura indifferently. “Before someone falls in.” She chuckled.
We reached the new site. Hole was ready, the dirt piled carefully to one side. A heavy two-holer had been rolled on logs and now lay on its side ready to be erected again. Three women in work clothes and muddy boots were grouped around it. Next stage in the operation was under cheerful discussion.
“We need more bodies. Two of us alone can’t lift it and we need the third to back-stop.” Woman who spoke was about thirty-five with a serious Semitic face and a New York accent.
“Relax, Rita. I see two extra bodies. Just in time, Laura, wouldn’t want you to miss this.” This came from a small, stout woman with close-cropped hair sitting on the roof of the privy kicking her legs. She looked like a mischievous cherub. The third woman, tall and very thin, said nothing, but she smiled at us and was first to kiss and hug Laura. The other two followed.
“This here is Helen. She’s just dropped in looking for someone,” Laura said once the customary feminist greetings were over. “She’ll give us a hand.”
“Hi, Helen.” There were cursory introductions. The roof-sitter turned out to be Chris, the silent one Artemis, the New Yorker Rita. No one evinced any curiosity about me. I was there ready to work. That was enough.
An hour later we were through. The privy was up over the new hole, solidly anchored with two-by-fours. The old hole was filled and pounded down. There was toilet paper and a new stack of reading matter in the new location. Nancy came out to congratulate us. A joint made the rounds as we waited our turns to test the new facilities.
“Now that we’ve celebrated the occasion appropriately,” Chris said, “let’s go eat.”
It takes a while for six very independent people to straggle in from outside and sit down to a meal. I cleaned up superficially and sat surrounded by pleasant chaos as five women went about their business of feeding cats, cleaning up, opening mail, cutting bread, arguing about lost objects, rolling a joint, stirring soup, finding the right number of clean spoons, discussing salad ingredients .…Finally we all sat down at the long kitchen table and ate. The conversation was sporadic and desultory. I felt Nancy’s eyes on me a couple of times but nothing was said about my reason for being there until the vegetable soup, cheese, bread, and salad were finished and we munched on homemade carrot cake and drank tea out of pottery mugs.
Nancy spoke. “Listen, everyone. Helen’s asking after Carol or Ray. Carol’s a friend of Helen’s from Vancouver. We don’t know anyone like that, do we?” It wasn’t a question. No one bothered to pretend it was. There was a silence while they all looked at me. It was up to me.
“OK. I lied. I’ve never met Carol. But you lied too. You know her and probably know where she is. It’s important that I get in touch with her. I have a message for her. And her mother is sick.” It was the best I could do.
“This Carol. What if she doesn’t want to be found?” Rita said. “Why should we help you find her? We know nothing about you.”
“Fair enough. And how much do you know about Ray, I mean Carol?”
“Enough to know why she doesn’t want to be found.”
“So you know about Ray Long ago and far away.”
“Yes.” Nancy chimed in with a monosyllable again.
“Look. I’m not here to blow the whistle on her. Do I look like a police stoolie? I just want to give her a message.”
“She knows about her mother,” Artemis said under her breath. Nancy looked at her sternly.
“Good. Listen. I did come here because of what happened all those years ago. I admit that. But now I want to talk to her about what’s happening here and now. In this valley. Please help me find her. I believe she’s in danger.” It sounded weak even to me.
“Sure she’s in danger. From you. And if she’s involved in something here and now — that’s her business. Not yours or ours,” Rita replied.
“So you know about it! Have you any idea …”
“Don’t patronize us. Yes, we have an idea. It doesn’t matter. She’s a sister. She came here for help, for sanctuary, for a place to stay until she got her shit together. We knew she was into something heavy. Heavy political. Male politics don’t concern us. That’s her choice. But she asked us to preserve her privacy. And that’s what we intend to do. You won’t find her through us.”
“I am sorry if I sounded patronizing. But you cannot just write it off as ‘male politics’ and therefore of no concern!”
“Why not?” Nancy interrupted. It sounded like she genuinely wanted to know.
“Because it does concern you! If for no other reason than because people may die and this sanctuary will be gone.”
“Maybe. But that’s a chance we’ll have to take. It’s not easy living the way we do. If we don’t stick to our principles, what’s the point?” Rita said. It was clear she merely expressed the consensus among them. Perhaps only Laura wasn’t quite sure. She had already made her decision to leave. This too was accepted by the others.
“More tea, anyone?” asked Nancy.
I held out my mug.
“All right,” I said. “I respect your politics even if we don’t agree on this point. But is there any way you could get a message to her? About my being here and wanting to get in touch? Let her decide.”
“No. We don’t know where she is.”
“But you know how to go about finding her. You have some idea. You must. OK, don’t tell me. Let me tell you. I do have another lead. Nothing to do with you. I am going to Nelson. I’ll be checking the bulletin board at the Jam Factory. If she wants to, she can leave a message of some kind there. OK?”
I received no answer.