Raphaella’s story explained a lot: her mother’s opposition to the two of us being together and her claim that it wasn’t personal; Raphaella’s reluctance to share a big part of her life. And especially the men at Hannah’s — the way they looked at her, as if she was Hannah come back to life.
As for her gift, as she called it, well, I had been aware of that for a long time. Her remarkable ability to sense and interpret things was something I was used to. As I slipped my hand over hers, I remembered that day in English class, the debate about love at first sight, and for the first time I wondered, How much had Raphaella known about me that day that I didn’t know about myself?
“Hannah’s murderers sensed your gift,” I said. “That’s why they went after you. They thought you were like her, and they were right.”
“I guess so.”
“I wonder why Hannah didn’t do something to fend them off, the way you did.”
“From what you told me, they caught her by surprise and she had no chance to think or defend herself.”
“No, she didn’t,” I said, recalling the kicked-in door, the terrified woman dragged outside and stoned. “She was a helper and a healer, skilled and knowledgeable, like you, and because of her knowledge they killed her.”
I thought of my mother and the assault on her by the militia — I had told Raphaella about it — and once again I realized how much danger Mom had been in. Those men could have killed her. And they would have gone home at the end of the day telling each other and themselves that they had done the right thing.
“It’s your deal, Gareth.”
“Okey-dokey.”
While Mom added up the score, my father began to show off, shuffling the deck like a Las Vegas pit boss — until a few cards burst into the air and fluttered to the floor. He started again.
“What’s the score, Mrs. Havelock?” Raphaella asked, smirking my way.
“Don’t tell her,” I said. “She’ll only rub it in.”
Raphaella had come over for dinner. Wearing a T-shirt with “Democracy: Use It Or Lose It” printed across the front in white letters, she had arrived on the front verandah carrying a package of sesame seed crackers, a small bouquet of flowers and a box of rosehip tea. It was a hot day, so we had eaten our salad and cold-cuts out on the patio. Dad and I had washed and dried the dishes — we lost the toss — while Mom and Raphaella set up the card table.
Raphaella and I were still learning the basics of bridge. To balance the skill level, she and Mom played against Dad and me. Mom played a conservative, calculated game. Dad took risks, playing with passion and energy. Raphaella and I stumbled along, trying not to make mistakes.
“Couldn’t we switch to crazy eights?” I asked as Dad dealt our hands.
“Don’t worry, podnah,” he said, sorting his cards. “We’ve got ‘em right where we want ‘em.”
“Then how come they’re winning?”
“They’re falling into our trap,” he said.
“Before the bidding starts, your father has something for you,” Mom announced.
Beaming, Dad slipped a small envelope across the table.
I gave Mom an enquiring glance. She raised her eyebrows but said nothing. Inside was a flimsy slip of paper.
“It’s a receipt from, let me see, The Book Bindery,” I read. “I don’t get it, Dad.”
“Read on.”
In the space under “Description of item” someone had written, “Maitland Diary.”
I handed the slip to Raphaella. Mom put down her cards and said, “The diary is being rebound. It should be ready in a few weeks.”
“Then it’s yours,” Dad concluded. “The bookbinder will preserve what’s left of the original cover and replace the missing part. It will be a refurbished artifact for Olde Gold’s refurbisher.”
“Dad, I … I don’t know what to say.”
“I saw you reading it that night in the shop,” he said. “You got so involved you let your pizza get cold.” He turned to Raphaella. “Can you imagine how interesting that diary must have been to make this guy forget his dinner?”
Raphaella looked me in the eye and smiled. “I think so,” she said.
“Dad, Mom, I can’t tell you how much this means.”
My father waved off my words. “Take it easy,” he said. “It’s just a book, right?” And picking up his cards he added, “Let’s play this hand. Your bid, Raphaella.”
Raphaella fanned her cards, hesitated and, with a gleam in her eye, asked, “Um, can I bid two no trumps?”
I groaned. “Pass.”
“Six no trumps,” Mom responded.
“Pass,” from my father.
“Seven no trumps,” Raphaella said.
I led one of my thirteen useless cards and Mom began to lay down her hand, neatly arranging the rows on the green felt.
Raphaella nervously fingered her cards. I could tell she was reviewing what she’d learned about playing a hand.
“Take your time,” Mom assured her. “And be careful.”
“And no shenanigans,” Dad put in.
Raphaella looked at me, then turned to my father.
“Shenanigans?” she said.
A few days passed before we got around to driving out to the Third Concession. Neither Raphaella nor I was anxious to return there, but we had left our equipment behind when we ran from the men.
“Besides,” I said. “Aren’t you curious to see if anything is different?”
When we got to the African Methodist Church I began to regret my bravado. I let the van roll to a stop and parked by the monument. It was the kind of summer evening when the air is soft, the sky taking on a pink band along the horizon, and you wish that time would stop. The building and cemetery looked peaceful, and the smell of freshly mowed grass hung in the still air. But my nerves didn’t feel the calm.
I got out of the van and closed the door quietly. Raphaella stole a glance at the church, then looked away. I kept my eye on her as we walked across the old cemetery and climbed the fence. If there were any unwelcome presences around, she’d know, I figured. She turned to me and smiled as if to say, Nothing yet.
We plodded slowly through the trees, scanning the forest on both sides of the path, our feet making the only noise. By the stream, where Raphaella had confronted the men, the mark in the earth when she clawed up the handful of dirt was still there. We continued, slowing as we reached the clearing. I took her hand and we held our breath in unison as we stepped out of the trees.
I was the first to laugh.
On the pile of rocks that had once been Hannah’s chimney sat a grey squirrel, busily nibbling on a pine cone that he held between his little hands, as unconcerned as if he owned the place. Sparrows squabbled in the trees and darted across the clearing, chasing one another. Bees hummed and butterflies fluttered in the warm air.
“Well, I guess it makes sense,” Raphaella said, reading my mind. “Hannah’s gone. The others must be gone, too.”
Our tent was half-collapsed, and stones lay scattered about. We set to work, rolling the tent and stuffing it into its bag, then packed our gear, including the little radio, into the backpacks we had brought with us. When we were finished, Raphaella took a look around and shouldered her pack.
“It seems so, well, normal here now. But I won’t miss the place, that’s for sure.”
I stood quietly and looked at the only reminder that the men who had chased Raphaella and me away had been here. The thrown stones, which had been plowed up by Jubal and Hannah after they had cleared the land of trees, lay where they had fallen. I picked one up — it was cool and rough against my skin — and thought about the irony: with the man she loved, Hannah had labored to pull from the ground the instruments of her own murder. It seemed wrong to leave them scattered chaotically around her yard.
“There’s something I want to do before we go,” I said.
“I’ll help.”
“No, I’d rather do this by myself.”
Raphaella nodded, sloughed of her pack and sat down on it, watching me. She smiled.
One by one I gathered the stones and returned them to the wall, arranging them in as orderly a fashion as I could to make the wall the way it had been. It didn’t take long. When I had finished, I took Raphaella by the hand and we walked back through the woods.