CHAPTER 12

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TODD INSISTS ON driving her to the post office. He says he wants to come, but that’s a lie. He helps her put on her shoes and he buttons up her jacket. She’s having trouble with her hands at the moment, but it will pass.

A man stands beside the towers of little metal mailboxes. He is flipping through envelopes, his mailbox door still hanging open with the key in it.

“What’s his name again?” Vivian whispers to her husband.

“Dean. Frank’s son.”

“Good morning, Dean,” she says with a smile.

Dean starts at the sound of her voice. “Oh ... hi Vivian. How are you?”

“Very well. How’s business?”

Dean glances at the envelopes. “We’ll see. I should be going.”

He locks his mailbox and barely acknowledges them as he leaves. Vivian stares through the glass until she sees his black Audi roll by.

She turns and looks at her husband. “You should find out what that’s about.”

He rolls his eyes, but he’ll do it.

Vivian sits on the bench and admires a Steller’s jay as he struts across the lawn in his fine black crest and deep blue coat. Their house is modest compared to her childhood home but it suits two seniors. The garden backs onto fields and the street is always quiet, so she can imagine she is part of the countryside.

She click-clicks her knitting needles and examines the lumpy blanket. She rests her messy handiwork on her lap and closes her eyes so her eyelids can soak up the sun’s warmth.

Todd lowers himself gently beside her, folding his reading glasses into his shirt pocket. “I think it would be best if you don’t spend any more time getting to know Dean.”

“Who?”

“Frank’s son.”

“Yes. Why? What about him?”

“Mary Jones has been talking to him. About the mill.”

Out of the corner of her eye she catches the jay spread its vibrant wings, escaping with its beauty.

“Are you sure?”

Todd interlocks his fingers and looks down at his knees. “Mary has found a new audience for her theories. Apparently he’s listening. He’s been asking around.”

“There’s no ... existence. There’s no ...”

“Evidence. Proof. Maybe not. But Mary’s started something and Dean’s been talking to the right people. They’re trying to dig it up again. I just want you to be prepared for that.”

Prepared. Half the time he talks to her like she’s a child, and now he wants her to be prepared.

He rattles on but his words are coming apart as they fall out of his mouth. She can only collect fragments and wonder at their meaning. She deciphers a name. Pam. He is saying something about Pam. She taps her forehead, but she can’t place Pam at the mill. She didn’t work there, did she?

“What could Pam have told him?”

“She might have mentioned Pete.”

“Who?”

“Pete Bernier. Her ex-husband.”

Yes, she remembers now. Pete Bernier was supposed to be dependable, but he couldn’t hold his nerve. Frank said trust him, but Vivian didn’t. He spent too much time propping up the bar at the Inn. She should’ve trusted her instinct, but who else could she rely on to take care of that sort of thing, if not Frank?

Todd unlocks and relocks his fingers again. “If you remember, Pam did make a bit of a fuss when Pete ... about the timing of everything.”

“I don’t. Remind me.”

“The explosion happened about 20 minutes before the shift change. Pete was scheduled to work on the next shift, which meant he was inside the mill at least 20 minutes early. Pam told the police he wouldn’t be on the job a second before he had to be. She also told them he’d been working for Frank on the side, and that he mentioned he was expecting a big payday, although Pete never told Pam what they were up to. That was just before the explosion happened. The cops never followed up on it, of course, because you saw to it that they wouldn’t.”

That sounds about right, although she has no memory of the specifics. She tries hard to remember Pete. A well-built man with centre parted hair that stopped around his ears and the hint of a moustache. He had an accent, didn’t he?

Todd continues to churn up things that were and things that are and things that could be. She doesn’t catch any of it until he repeats her name: Mary Jones.

The young man has been talking to Mary Jones.

Vivian rubs her temples. It’s too much. This can’t happen now. Todd is looking at her again in that odd way, as if down a microscope, pitying how small she’s become. She tries to come up with some clever remark, but the words shuffle uncomfortably in her brain and she needs to shut him out. Shut it all out. Why is she so exhausted? Is he giving her those pills again? She can’t ask him. She can’t fit the words together.

The year is 1976. A frost arrives much earlier than usual and kills her tomato plants but it doesn’t keep the residents of Stapleton from attending the most important council meeting of the decade. She’s wearing a midnight blue skirt suit with gold buttons, her feathered blonde hair revitalized earlier in the day at a Stony Creek salon. Todd says she looks like a business executive in a Hollywood movie. She touches her pearls, straightens her back, lifts her chin and marches into the council chamber.

The village hall is as busy as she has ever seen it. The welcoming nods and pleasantries from the residents remind her of strolling down Main Street holding Father’s hand, except this success is her own. These people respect her and they have come today to support her proposal. They voted for her because they trusted her to get this town back on track after the closure of her father’s coalmine some years before. They know she won’t let them down.

Vivian can barely concentrate as the mayor rumbles through the banal discussions that clog up every session. By the time he clanks his gavel and moves the meeting forward to the only important matter on the agenda, bodies have become restless and yawns indiscreet.

Alan Watford, their aging CAO, brings no colour to Vivian’s proposal as he reads her words aloud. Nonetheless, there are excited murmurs in the public seating area. This is the turning point and they have come to witness it: the end of Stapleton’s slump.

One person stands opposed. A short, unbecoming figure in flared pants and a knit sweater. Muddy green and brown. Hair flat against her head and large glasses that take up half of her round face. She stands at the head of the full room with the kind of awkwardness that makes other people wish the ground would swallow her up for her own sake.

“For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Mary Jones. My maiden name is Ishida. I was born in Canada to Japanese Canadian parents. We were forcibly relocated to Stapleton during the war.”

Vivian casts a discreet glance at a couple of the old timers; expressions steeled by their wartime hatred of the “Japs.” Mary’s voice wobbles and then levels off into a steady monotone.

“I was 4 years old when we arrived in 1942. That was 30 years ago, but it was a traumatic period in my life and some of the memories I have of that time remain very clear to me.”

A wary murmur creeps around the room as Mary pauses to check her speaking notes. They’re all wondering what this has to do with the proposed sawmill. Mary is up against a town that is hungry, a town that longs for what they had. It will take a powerful speech to turn them around and Mary Ishida Jones is not the one to deliver it. Vivian looks her opponent directly in the eye as she lifts her head to continue.

“Many of you have lived here long enough to remember that the internment camp was located on the land adjacent to the proposed mill site. During the war, all of us at the camp knew there was a military installation next door to us. We could see the buildings from the camp but none were visible from the town and most people assumed the military’s activities on that site were associated with the camp. I believe that’s why the military chose that location; the internment camp was the perfect cover for their secret operations. After the war, they pulled all the buildings down and made the whole area off-limits. For a long time, there were huge No Trespassing signs and a fence blocking access from the road. We heard that the military had been doing chemical testing in the area and that’s why they didn’t want anyone on the land. We don’t know what contaminants remain in the ground and what kind of harm they could cause.”

Vivian lets out a polite laugh and all eyes are instantly on her. In a charisma contest, she has everything Mary Jones doesn’t: poise, dress sense, attitude. She knows how to control a room. She knows Mary, a first-time speaker at council, won’t object to her interruption. Nor will anyone else.

“That was a long time ago, Mary. You and I were both children. I remember hearing a lot of wild tales circulating back then too, especially after all the paranoia of wartime life. And I can assure you we have done our due diligence in getting permission to develop the land. If the military had been conducting any dangerous experiments that could pose a risk to our health, we wouldn’t have been allowed to proceed this far.”

Vivian releases a broad smile, more patronizing than polite. Everybody old enough to remember those days heard the rumours that floated around when the “no trespassing” signs went up. Everyone in the room knows there is nowhere else to develop that would meet the requirements of a busy sawmill. Vivian doesn’t even need to say it: We develop there, or there will be no development.

By the time this public forum is held, it’s too late, really, for members of the public to get in the way. Pockets have been lined and people who matter have been convinced of the value of the project. The mill corporation is ready to sign up to the promise of dirt-cheap land and low taxes. In return they are offering 500 jobs, a lot for a little town. Quite an achievement. The room agrees with Vivian on that point.

Vivian has been assured there is absolutely nothing to worry about. No health risks to speak of, not after so much time has passed. Yes, they could go after the government for compensation and a proper clean-up, but where would that leave them? Short term handouts after a lengthy legal battle and no long-term jobs. What this town needs is investment. It’s in everybody’s best interests to redevelop the land.

It is all so clear to her at times, how things were back then. Not like now. She gets so easily lost in the present.

In Vivian’s lap is a ball of wool and the beginnings of something. She picks up the needles that are supposed to work together and weaves the yarn. She doesn’t remember how it is all supposed to fit, so she puts the needles down and holds the soft wool in her hands. It’s going to be a scarf, she decides, a beautiful emerald green scarf. She’ll work on it another day when she’s feeling sharper.

“Do you remember when we moved to Stapleton?”

Todd is asking. He has brought an old photo album out onto the veranda and placed it on his lap. It is one of his games. He is playing with her again. He wants to show her what she doesn’t know.

“Yes,” she says, although she has no memory of that particular event.

He points to a photo of a boy standing in front of a grand home. It’s their son Stuart, of course, but she won’t participate in this silly charade.

Stuart looks about 10 or 11 in the photo. He is standing in front of Mother’s house, the first place they lived when they arrived in Stapleton. It was Mother who brought them back; Vivian first. When she became terminally ill, Vivian came from Vancouver to care for her for a few weeks. Weeks became months and, as Mother grew weaker, Vivian found herself being drawn back into the town. To her own surprise as much as anyone else’s, she suggested to Todd that they leave their busy city life and return to Stapleton. Her expertise would be invaluable in revitalizing the community that had lost so much after the closure of the coalmine. She would do what her father couldn’t: keep this town alive. Todd was willing to do the extra travelling in order to manage their business interests. He found city life stressful and had romanticised the idea of a country retreat. Stuart’s private school had a boarding option, so his education wouldn’t suffer. Yes, she remembers that time very clearly now.

Todd is still pointing at the photograph of young Stuart in front of Vivian’s childhood home.

“Well, he can’t be yours,” she says. “He’s far too handsome.”