Sleepers and Ties, page 2
I love you, my bossy marvel. Don’t cry. We’ve had enough tears to last a lifetime. Have a double whiskey. Tell the boys I loved them more than they could ever know.
Sis, Shirley xo
I push away from the chair, and make my way to the window, brush my cheek and steady my hands on the sill.
3. EXTRA
Nothing in Shirley’s belongings had hinted at a letter. Why hadn’t she left it where I could find it? All those weekends I spent going through her condo, taking clothes to the charity shops, having her neighbours round to help themselves to furniture, books, and CDs. Why hadn’t she ever mentioned the money or investment? She had eight million dollars. Eight-million-dollars. And she expects me to—what has she written?—finish what I started. Reviving a rail line like the one that Dad believed in. What does that even mean?
‘Shall we continue?’ Hall clears his throat. ‘There are a couple of other important legalities we need to address. Please sign the second probate here, and here, and initial at the x’s.’
He hands me a pen, and when I press the cap, a retractable fountain pen nib appears. I examine the reservoir of ink; dad had been fond of fountain pens.
‘And the letter regarding the donation of land to the conservancy? Do you have that? The one for The Saskatchewan Very Land Trust, the VLT. That is very important.’
I stop mid-signing. He’d just said a personal matter was of no urgency. ‘Why didn’t you send me this letter six months ago? Or at least tell me about it. Why did you keep it from me?’
‘I didn’t exactly keep it from you. You told me that you would be making a trip here with your sister’s ashes, and I assumed it would have been sooner than this. As I’ve noted, her wish was that I give it to you in person.’
‘I am the executrix of her estate. This letter should have been delivered with the will, or you could have told me there was an urgent matter that required my attention. You had no right to keep this from me.’ I stop short of shrieking my reprimand.
‘Please, don’t upset yourself. You have it in hand now. The letter is just a sweet farewell. It is not a legally binding document. I also had an obligation to Shirley.’
By her words, my sister is in the room with me, but unable to speak further than the contents of this piece of paper. I am almost physically ill at the thought that before her personal sentiments could be absorbed by her family, they had been discharged by a stranger.
‘But the letter forms part of the residue of her estate. Didn’t you think that I had the right to know about the money?’
‘I assure you, I’ve been meticulous with the assets. I handed over the accounts to an independent accounting firm when we began this process. It’s all documented. Besides, in all of our correspondence, you never implied that you didn’t know about her investment.’
How smoothly he has turned this into my oversight. Sun spots or no, I now have reason to dislike Hall.
‘We need to discuss the matter of the small parcel of land, the remnant of your grandparents’ original homestead, bordering the old rail line. Your mother turned all but these fifty acres over to the land trust, the VLT. You now own this land,’ he adds.
Hall waits for me to settle. He takes out a handkerchief and wipes his nose. Something chokes to the surface—nostalgia or perhaps office dust. ‘This has been a difficult time for you,’ he sniffs.
Difficult time. What a convenient box for something which cannot be contained. What could he know of my difficult time? He sees a woman in front of him, dressed in a business suit, perhaps a little tired looking, but he knows nothing of the anguish that I alone own. How I’ve kept on, barely placing one foot in front of the other.
He leans back in his chair. ‘You know, you don’t look like your mother or your sister. And you probably don’t remember me tending to your father’s will. I had just started out on my own then.’
Like I give a fig who he thinks I do or don’t resemble. He is diverting from the fact that he’s kept from me my sister’s letter and her eight million dollars.
‘Jean and Shirley both had their wills drawn up here.’ ‘Marvels. Really?’
‘I beg your pardon? You are quite flushed. Are you feeling alright?’
‘The VLT, you were saying.’ I am still holding the document.
‘Right. Let’s go back to the terms of the VLT commitment. I am also obligated to make sure you are clear about the details regarding your grandparents’ homestead as given over to the land trust.’ Hall forces a smile, and then his lips fall back into their acquired judicial frown. ‘When we spoke a few months ago, I inferred that you were not fully aware of the donation of land your mother made, before she died, and which Shirley agreed with when she inherited the remnant fifty acres that your mother wished to be kept in the family.’
‘I wasn’t unaware.’ I brush the prairie dust from my skirt. ‘I chose not to be involved.’
This again? ‘I get how it works.’
‘Just to review a few of the particulars then,’ Hall continues. ‘May I have a glass of water, please?’
‘Of course.’ He rises to attention. ‘Unless you’d prefer tea or coffee?’
‘Just water. Thank you.’
I hear whispering; he’s left the office door ajar.
I suddenly find it difficult to breathe. The room, all these papers. I look to the office curtains hoping for some fresh air and notice that I’ve left the rental car windows done up all the way. The car will be a sauna if I don’t get out and roll down the windows.
Hall holds out the glass of water. I take a drink.
‘I’m suggesting you reverse your mother’s donation. I’ve found a loophole whereby you could take back the land left to the trust, and still put the entire family homestead up for sale. But, that opportunity will quickly pass.’
‘I’m sorry.’ I gather up my things. ‘I will have to come back another time. I need to be somewhere else right now. Do you mind?’
I am almost at the door. Hall is close on my heels. ‘But there are several items we must go over.’
I fold my sister’s letter and place it in my purse. ‘I’m assuming I can keep this.’
‘Of course. I have copies.’
‘I’ll call and make another appointment.’
‘You’ll be wanting to wrap things up here and get back home. Did I mention I have a buyer interested in that land?’
As I force the outer door open, I look back over my shoulder and see Hall leaning over his secretary.
‘I’m sure Mrs. Hall can find an extra time slot for you in the next couple of days.’
Typical. So much for the cheque I’ve made out for his fees.
4. DIVISION
The phone rings three times. I check my watch, realizing I haven’t accounted for the time difference. I’ve driven away from Hall’s office so that he can’t come chasing after me. I have to tell Jake the news. I am idling at a bus stop when a parking spot comes available, facing the opposite direction. I drop the phone to my lap, crank a u-ey and pull in front of the Bessborough Hotel. At the fourth ring, I am about to hang up.
‘Hello, hello, Jake here.’
‘I’ve just been to see Gerald Hall.’
‘Margaret. Did you get everything sorted?’
‘You won’t believe this. Shirley has left me eight million dollars. Do you hear me? Eight million dollars.’
‘What are you talking about? I’ve seen her will.’
I feel in my purse for the letter. ‘There is a letter. Hall had a letter.’
‘I don’t get it. Someone sent Shirley a letter? Was she in some sort of class action suit?’
‘No. She left me a letter, telling me about some potash investment she had that she just let sit and grow.’
‘And you didn’t know anything about this?’
‘Of course I didn’t know.’
‘I know you cross t’s and dot i’s, but could you have missed something in her bank accounts?’
Does he think it is my fault for not knowing about her money?
‘Where is this money?’ he asks.
‘I’ve just left the lawyer’s. I don’t have the money.’
‘That was rather selfish of her. She could have passed on that little financial tip to me—us.’
Jake visits his bank every month, hounds his financial adviser for better, higher paying dividends on our small savings, but he is also averse to risk. I’ve always just left the financial matters in his hands.
‘It was years ago.’
‘Well, seems we’ve got the money now,’ he says. ‘How soon can Hall transfer it over? I’ll go and see my broker this week and get it earning some dividends, or maybe put it in one of our no-risk funds.’
I wonder if all that money will fit in a carry-on. Did Hall tell me there was a cheque for that amount? Does the law office have a safe?
‘Dividends? It’s eight million dollars. Hang on, I’ll just dig the letter out of my purse and read it to you.’
The meter attendant is approaching the car. I wave my purse to indicate I am looking for coins to plug the meter. She gives me the thumbs up. I unbuckle my seatbelt and read the letter to Jake, adding that Hall made it clear that the letter was not legally binding.
‘Marvels. I don’t think you know she called me that after—’
‘I’ve just gone to your desk, and taken her will out of the file. “The residue of the estate.” And here we were worried about paying the last of her taxes out of our pockets.’
‘I have to go back to the lawyer’s office. I left in a hurry.’
The line goes quiet. While Jake is processing what I’ve just told him, I peer up at the stone walls of the Bessborough Hotel, stretch my head back looking towards its parapets. Shirley and I had spent the one night here together, when we brought Mom’s ashes home. We’d walked along the riverbank together in silence. She might have told me about the money then.
When we were forced to leave the station at Plover, Mom felt claustrophobic in the apartment we’d had to move into and she often brought us to the park adjacent to the stately hotel. ‘The Bez’, she’d explained, was named after the 9th Earl of Bessborough. It was one of many planned Canadian chateau-style railway hotels meant to entice wealthy travelers, and at times, house the railway’s executives and their wives. Shirley and I had pretended it was our castle. The hotel was near the original CNR station. The present station stop, for the now cross-country passenger train VIA Rail, is west of town.
‘I’ve just had an idea,’ Jake says. ‘This isn’t the best time of course, with you out there and me here, but I’ll start looking around for one of those river cruises like Reg and Mo went on. Maybe something along the Rhine. A good long rest from all that we’ve had to deal with in the last while.’
I can almost see him rubbing his hands together.
Jake—not we—has been obsessing about river cruises ever since his retired pals enjoyed the pleasures of cycling and cruising. As if I have time to piddle away on a boat.
‘But what about the rail line?’
‘The what?’
‘Her letter. She’s asked me to revive a rail line.’
‘Didn’t you say the letter wasn’t legally binding?’
‘What has that got to do with it?’
‘It’s a ridiculous request, at best. No one would expect you to take on that mission. Remember when Shirley first moved out to the coast and was going to take up scuba diving, hoping to communicate with whales to see if they could tell her what they needed?’
Where is this sarcasm coming from? ‘Yes, but when she joined the movement to lobby for tourist boats to keep a greater distance from whales, there was definitely a change.’
‘Well. Apples and oranges.’
‘I need time to think about this.’
‘Of course we do.’
Jake’s suddenly referring to everything as ‘we’ is beginning to grate. After Dad died, Shirley, Mom, and I had closed ranks. A troika of defence had its own consequences. Led to my equating separation with strength, the ability to endure. Now this we against Shirley.
‘It’s a lot to take in. I had this urge to phone her and ask her what she was thinking.’
‘You’ll feel that way for a long time. But railways don’t make money. Look, practically speaking, this kind of thing could take years, and way more than eight million dollars. And where would you find this little railway in need of reviving? No, the money would be long gone before anything got off the ground. Do you want to throw away our and the boys’ futures on a fanciful request left in a letter?’
Just now, I am really needing that whiskey. There’s likely a bar fridge in my room.
‘I thought you liked my sister.’
‘I did. But you have to admit she could be all over the map with plans that never materialized. Given a second thought, I know she’d want you to have the money.’
Six months ago, my sister’s age had been cut off at 47. No one, not even a husband, has the right to now criticize her personality, or her bequest.
‘Jake, I need to check into the hotel. The attendant is coming back up the street and I haven’t put any money in the meter. I’ll call you tomorrow and we’ll talk about it some more then. Alright?’
‘Do you want me to fly out and take care of this side of things? Being back there could stir things up and leave you vulnerable.’
This side of things? Jake had been too busy to help me clean out my mother and sister’s condo; even suggested it would be cathartic for me to do it on my own. There had been moments in the division of property, sorting and hauling, when I would have appreciated his presence, his arms to carry a load down to the bins, or gather me up when I felt broken, but his own work obligations with the Ministry of Education have always taken precedence. I suppose I am still feeling resentful.
‘No. I can manage just fine.’
‘Alright then. You go and have a nice long hot bath. And order up room service. We can afford it now.’
And now, condescension. I could have ordered up room service before Shirley’s letter if I bloody well wanted to, but I am in no mood to start something over the phone, and with Jake it is usually less aggravating to let him have the last say.
5. JUNCTION
Over the years, on my travels to meetings and conferences, I’ve gotten into the habit of taking my own unscented shampoos and lotions, and my own cleaning sponge to counter the malodourous cleaning products they frequently use in hotels. And while the novelty of staying in a hotel has worn off, I still feel a kind of euphoria when I punch my card key into the door. If the hotel is of exceptional ranking, there is an expectation of indulgence. The hair products and wrapped foreign soaps are so unlike my practical pharmacy specials, and a white bath robe on the back of the bathroom door offers up blissful surrender. At this door, though, it isn’t euphoria, but fight or flight adrenaline still surging though me from the events of the past few hours.
I open my carry-on, fling open the curtains, wash my hands, and then open the miniature fridge and evaluate the assortment of tiny bottles. They seem less than adequate—not because of my sudden increase in cash flow, but more that they seem to say, ‘Here’s a little something, for a little something.’ More suited to a ladies’ night out. The unexpected news, the money, and my sister speaking to me through her letter, added to the day of travel, call for a large pour, over some deep ice, from a substantial bottle.
I slide onto a stool in the hotel’s bar. ‘A large Bushmills, please.’ The barman nods when I raise my glass and say, ‘To Shirley.’
If she were here, she would have added something to make us both laugh. She could always size up the moment, and with quick wit, draw a line under the occasion. I think to myself, well planned. A little money always makes the grief go down a little easier. Random. Definitely not funny.
The whiskey jolts and I drink it to quench my thirst. I don’t order a second, but one appears, and this time I let each bite of honey sweetness linger on my tongue. There is no one else in the bar. Thankfully, the bartender reads that I am not one for chatter, and spends his time taking bottles off the shelf and giving them a polish. With only an airplane breakfast sandwich in my stomach, I soon feel lightheaded. I could grab something to eat, take a long bath, live dangerously and open one of those bath balms, but that doesn’t appeal. I could go back to Hall’s, pick a fight, but not that soon; I would just embarrass myself. And I need time. My friend, Massy, isn’t expecting me for a day, and although country people don’t bother about such things, I don’t feel up to driving back to where I’ve just come from only a few short hours ago.
There is only one place to go. I get into the car and cautiously drive towards the north end of the city, across railroad tracks, through a set of high wrought iron gates, to where I know they will be waiting. Sections of the cemetery are separated by narrow pathways, and I immediately look for section fifty-one. I estimate it to be closer to the gates than it is. Over one crossroad, and then another junction. More to the left side than I recall. Then doubling back when I go too far on a path. I pull the car over and walk along the perimeter of the section where flat stones mark the graves. Stepping carefully between their neighbours, I find my parents’, Neal and Jean’s, resting place. A tiny bouquet of weather-beaten artificial flowers is nestled in a corner of Mom’s stone, the wire ends shoved deep into the earth. I wonder who has placed them here. The edges of the stones have pocketed clippings of mown grass and clumps of mud. A film of dirt dulls the marble and blurs their names and the dates of when their stories started and ended. A car passes by on an easterly access road, but there is no one else in sight. I wish I had a pair of secateurs so that I could trim away the overgrowth. The groundskeeper has mowed the grass, but nobody is keeping up the appearance of headstones, and the ones lying flat on the ground always collect detritus. I take a tissue out of my pocket, dry the tears that alcohol has fetched, and try to wipe away the dirt left by the seasons, but that only makes more of a mess. All is still. Like the museum, before it opens.
