In Search of Sam (6 page)

On Friday morning,
I drive to Merritt. I need money to pay for my room at The Apple Tree, and I also need some cash in case I want to buy something at Saturday's bazaar. As I wait in line for my turn at the ATM, a poster tacked to a bulletin board catches my eye. It's the same as the one at the community hall — the one advertising the bazaar. I'm surprised. I didn't realize Farrow's reach extended beyond the town's borders.

It's nearing noon when I finish my business, so I decide to grab something to eat before heading back. As I push open the door to a coffee shop, I spy another poster in the front window. When I pop into a drugstore for shampoo, there's one there too.

On my return drive, I see a huge sign that says
64th Annual Spring Bazaar in Farrow, Saturday, March 22nd. Don't miss it!
That certainly wasn't there before. I start to get the feeling that the spring bazaar is a big deal.

I know George is at the community hall setting up, so I drop in to see if she needs help. From the look of it, every last resident of Farrow is there. I'm tempted to make inquiries about Sam, but everyone is so busy, they probably wouldn't welcome the interruption. According to the diagram on the wall, there is a carefully laid out plan for all the booths and exhibits, but you wouldn't know it from the chaos. The place is a giant mishmash of boxes, tables, electrical cords, balloons, banners, props, merchandise, and bodies.

I hear George before I see her. She whistles to get my attention. Her table is on the fringes, so I dodge some little kids playing tag and slide around a couple of men carting what looks like a miniature swimming pool, and make my way over.

“It's crazy busy in here,” I say. “Do you need a hand?”

“That would be wonderful.” She smiles wearily and drags the back of her hand across her forehead. Then she takes a deep breath and shakes the folds out of a big blue gingham cloth.

I catch an end of the billowing fabric and between us we spread it over the table.

“Looks good.” I nod. “Very homey.”

George waves away the compliment. “Hopefully it will be when we're done.” She lifts a chicken-wire crate onto the table and angles it on its side near one end. Then she pushes a bulging green garbage bag toward me.

“What's this?”

“Hay,” she says. “We want to stuff some into the crate — decorative-like, if you know what I mean. You can spill a little onto the table too. Makes a nice display for the jams and jellies.”

“What's your best seller?” I ask.

She gestures to a long cardboard sign on the wall behind the table.
George's Fruit Jars: Sweet & Savoury Preserves. Best Apple Butter in B.C.

“Do you offer samples?”

She blinks in surprise. “In all the years I've been doing this, the thought never crossed my mind. What a good idea!” Suddenly rejuvenated, her eyes sparkle with genuine excitement. “Let's get this finished. I have to get home and bake some bread.”

That night I sleep like I've been drugged, and when I wake up the next morning, George is gone. There's a key and a note on the kitchen table.

I'm at the bazaar. Fresh baked muffins in the basket on the counter.

Orange juice in the fridge. If you want something else, help yourself. Please lock up when you go out.

— George

I check the time. It's already nearly ten o'clock! The bazaar started an hour ago. I quickly down a glass of juice and grab a muffin to go.

Two blocks from the community hall, the road is already lined with vehicles on both sides. It's even more congested at the hall. Luckily for me, a car pulls out just as I approach, and I snag a spot directly across the street from the front door.

In the foyer, there's a table manned by two elderly women. Between them is a very large glass bowl and a sign that says,
Admission by donation
.
Inside the bowl there's a healthy assortment of coins and bills. I fish a five from my wallet and drop it in.

“Thank you, dear,” smiles one of the old ladies. She tears twin tickets off a roll, drops one into a decorated metal wastebasket, and hands me the other. “Keep this safe now,” she says. “You could win a prize.” She gestures to an impressive display of items behind her. “The draws will be made at three o'clock, so be sure you're here.”

I thank her and move into the main room of the hall. It is totally transformed from what it was yesterday. Now the tables, booths, and other displays are arranged in orderly rows, decked with colourful signs and mountains of sale items. The aisles between are brimming with shoppers. There are easily three hundred people.

I ease my way into the crowd and am instantly swallowed up. I smell fresh-brewed coffee and suddenly remember that I haven't had mine yet. I spy the coffee urn a few tables away, but the crowd is moving at a snail's pace, and there's no way to push through, so I busy myself examining the wares until coffee is within reach. In no time I'm so absorbed with what I'm looking at and the people I'm talking to that I completely forget about coffee.

The bazaar has something for everyone. For culinary types there are spices, recipe books, aprons, fridge magnets, and pot holders. For those who are more interested in eating there's a popcorn machine and a doughnut-making machine, as well as several tables selling fudge and baked goods. There's stained glass, handmade quilts, homemade soap, candles of every shape, size, and colour, garden sculptures, paintings, stuffed toys, baby clothes, stationery, and puppets. Several tables are selling jewellery, so I buy a bracelet for my mother and earrings for myself. I can't leave Reed out, so I buy him some of George's preserves. Apple butter for sure, as well as blackberry jam, strawberry compote, and red pepper jelly. The old man I met the day I arrived in Farrow is selling intricately carved walking sticks. They are so beautiful I wish I had a reason to buy one. In addition to the items for sale, there are displays strategically placed among the tables: a photo history of the village, a collection of town artifacts, and a diorama of a long-ago mining operation.

There is so much to see, I can barely take it all in. The people manning the tables all have a story to tell, and I quickly realize how close everyone in the community is. The town may not be much to look at, and it may not have a large population, but its roots run deep and its residents are like a large family.

A pottery table is last, which is a good thing, because if I'd seen it when I first came in, I might have spent half my inheritance at it. Even though the morning isn't over, most of the pieces remaining have “sold” stickers.

“Oh, my god,” I gush. “Everything is so beautiful.” Different than anything I've seen before. “Is it all done on a wheel?”

The young woman behind the table nods. “Mostly. There are a few pieces of slab work, though nothing here right now.” She shrugs. “Sorry. We had no idea the pottery would be so popular. We didn't bring enough, but we'll be restocking for the afternoon.”

“Really? I'd love to buy a piece. Do you have any more bowls like this one?” I run my fingers around the rim, thinking of my mom. She could use some of these pieces in her interior design business.

“Similar, yes. Each piece is individually crafted, so no two are exactly the same, but I'm sure we have something you'll like. The new stock should be here by one o'clock.” I glance at my watch. It's almost eleven thirty. I have to leave in half an hour if I want to catch up with the flower lady at the cemetery.

I bite my lip. “Unfortunately, I have an appointment, and I don't know how long it'll take. Do you have a business card? Your work is gorgeous, and if I can't get something today, maybe I could get hold of you after the bazaar.”

“Oh, I'm not the potter,” she says quickly. “I'm just helping out. But I'll pass your compliments along.” She ducks down under the table, and when she pops up again, she hands me a green embossed card. “Here you go,” she smiles, “in case you don't get back.”

“Thanks very much.” According to the card, Alex Burke is the potter. I stuff the card into my pocket.

Exit Here
, reads a huge sign over a set of open double doors at the back of the hall, so I head toward them. On the way I see a fishing pool for kids. There's no water in it, just plastic pellets and tiny toys encased in bags sealed with metal clips. The children are armed with fishing rods dangling magnetic bait. If squeals and giggles are any indication, they're all having a good time and even catching a few toys.

As I step outside I pass a dunk tank just as a young man wings a baseball at the target, sending the pretty girl perched on the platform plunging into the water. The mini playground is in full use, and a half-dozen kids are kicking a soccer ball around the field. The bazaar organizers clearly planned for kids. They also thought about lunch. Several barbecues are set up, churning out mouth-watering smells of hotdogs and hamburgers.

“Five minutes.” One of the chefs raises an open hand.

I nod and smile. “I'll be back,” I say and head over to the corral, which — unlike the last time I saw it — is in full use. Ponies carrying little kids parade in a circle, each one led by a cowboy or cowgirl. On the outside of the corral, the next round of riders impatiently awaits its turn.

I lean on the fence to watch. It takes me back to Webb's River and my riding lessons at Greener Pastures Ranch.

A voice interrupts my thoughts. “You a rider?”

I look around at the ancient cowboy standing at my shoulder. Where did he come from?

“I've done a little, but I'm not very good,” I tell him. “Twice around the corral, and these little people will be better than me.”

He chuckles. “Kids are naturals. I been working with them most of my life. My son and his wife raise horses down the highway a few miles. I live with them. I used to rent this corral and offer riding lessons, but as more and more folks moved away, I just couldn't make money at it.”

My heart does a mini flip. Could Sam have taken riding lessons from this man? The cowboy answers my question before I even ask it.

“Of course, I wasn't here when Farrow was really in its heyday. That would've been mid fifties, and I didn't move here until '93.”

My hopes do a nosedive.

“Farrow was dying even then, but it was still a nice little town. Hard to believe now,” he says, “but there was a time when this corral was busy all the time. There used to be a barn and a grandstand right over there.” He points across the way.

“Why a grandstand?”

I frown. “Why do you say that?”

“Every year more people move away. The bazaar has always drawn a big crowd, but it's a lot of work to organize, especially when there aren't many bodies to do it. It's been around for sixty-four years, but this is the last time. It's a real shame, I tell you.”

Though it's only 12:20
when I get to the cemetery, I'm worried that the flower lady has already been and gone. I hurry to the graves of John and Hannah Swan to find out.

There are no fresh flowers, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

But by one o'clock, the woman still hasn't shown up, so I start reading the headstones to pass the time. Most of my friends think graveyards are scary — or at least morbid. They imagine bodies devoured by maggots and worms, or decaying zombies pushing up through the ground to attack the living. I, on the other hand, find cemeteries peaceful. There's something comforting about walking among people who are at rest.

By two thirty I'm familiar enough with the graveyard to conduct tours. I know that Barnaby Wacker's grave is the oldest and Melanie Dufresne's is the most recent. I know William Hornby Jr. was the youngest person to die — four hours old — and Mable Myerson lived to be 101. I know Drake Hodges was killed during a dispute over a mining claim and the entire Foligno family died in a house fire. Just by reading the markers I have a sense of who lived full and satisfying lives, the people who were much-loved, and the ones who life cheated in some way or another.

A fat raindrop splatters the back of my hand, and I look up. The sky is thick with black clouds. I don't know when they arrived, but they don't look like they plan on leaving any time soon.

Splat, splat, splat, splat!
As they seriously begin to dump their load, I scurry for my car. I'm barely inside when the sky opens up like the Hoover Dam. The rain pelts down for a good fifteen minutes, bouncing off the hood and windshield like liquid buckshot, and then, suddenly used up, it stops, and a laser beam of sunlight punches a hole in the grey, exposing a lonely little patch of blue.

Through my rear-view mirror I see a car pull up behind me. The driver, a woman, turns off the engine and reaches behind her, retrieving a bouquet of flowers before exiting the vehicle.

She has to be the flower lady.

I want to jump out of my Honda and run over to her before she can even close her car door, but no doubt she'd think I'm a lunatic, so I force myself to stay where I am.

I wait until she's through the fence. Then I casually let myself out of my car and stroll after her, making sure to keep a reasonable distance between us. Until she stops at the graves of John and Hannah Snow, that is. Then I can't contain myself any longer.

“Excuse me,” I call as I jog towards her.

She's on her haunches, reaching for the wilted bouquet, but she glances curiously over her shoulder. “Pardon?”

I force myself back to a walk. “Sorry to bother you. I wonder if you could help me.”

“Car trouble?” she says, looking past me toward the Honda. “I saw you sitting there when I drove up.”

I shake my head and smile. “No, it's not that.” I point to the graves. “It's about John and Hannah Swan.”

She looks back at their graves, places the new bouquet of flowers in the recessed vase, and stands up. Then she looks back at me and cocks her head quizzically. “What about them?”

“Are they your family?”

Her eyes narrow. “Why do you ask?”

I take a step back. The last thing I want is to spook her. “Because my father was left on their doorstep when he was a baby,” I blurt. “I'm trying to find out why he was abandoned and who his mother was. I want to know who his family was — who my family is.” I gesture to the fresh bouquet and shrug. “You leave flowers for them, so I thought you might know something.”

The woman smiles sadly and shakes her head. “I'm sorry,” she says. “I don't know these people. In fact, I don't know anyone in Farrow. I'm a florist. I have a shop in Merritt. I'm paid to change the flowers each week. I've been doing it for years.”

It takes a few seconds for her words to sink in. “Really?” I blink. “Someone pays you to do this? Can you tell me who?” This could be the breakthrough I've been waiting for.

She shakes her head again. “I'm afraid not. To be honest, I don't know myself. All I can tell you is that every six months I get a bank draft for a half year's worth of flowers.” She sighs. “But I'm afraid that's coming to an end. A month ago I received a letter from a lawyer in Kamloops, informing me that the person paying for the flowers had died.”

My knees instantly turn to jelly. It's a wonder they continue to hold me up.

I watch in a daze as the woman stuffs the wilted bouquet into a plastic bag and ties it shut. “So that's that. My golden goose has flown the coop.” She sighs. “Aw, well, I shouldn't complain. It was great while it lasted.” As she heads towards her car, she calls back, “Good luck with your search. Sorry I couldn't help.”

I don't reply. I'm still too stunned. Sam was the person who arranged for the flowers to be placed at the graves. It had to be him. It's the only logical explanation. He probably set it up through Bob Morgan. I can check with the lawyer, but I really don't need to. I know in my heart it's the truth. It's such a Sam thing to do.

I kneel down. Some of the flowers in the bouquet are stuck together, so I gently separate them and turn them to show off their blooms. I smile.

“He loved you guys,” I tell Hannah and John, in case they didn't already know.

It's after three o'clock. The bazaar will be winding down, but I might still be able to purchase a piece of pottery, so I hop back into my car and head back. At least I think I'm heading back, but my mind is still at the cemetery, thinking about what the florist told me. Somehow I make the wrong turn and before I know it I'm driving into unknown territory. Trees and bush spring up out of nowhere and the paved road narrows into a dirt track, making it impossible to turn around. It's muddy too, so I'm afraid to stop for fear of getting stuck. I have no choice but to keep going.

I could kick myself. If I'd been concentrating on my driving, I would be back at the community hall by now, instead of in the middle of nowhere. I have visions of running out of road, running out of gas, having my car tipped over by a bear, and spending the night upside down at the end of the world. To make matters worse, the sky is once more black with clouds, and it's spitting again. I add drowning to my list of worries.

I have just begun to consider putting the car into reverse and backing my way to the main road, when the trees give way to a field. The road isn't any wider here, but at least there's room to turn around. Before I can do that, though, I spot a truck about a hundred yards farther on. It's facing me. Curious, I keep driving.

As I get closer, I realize I've seen this truck before. It belongs to the weed whacker girl from the cemetery.

I pull around and park in front of the truck. Then I get out of my car, wander back to the old pickup, and peer inside. There are muddy boot prints on the floor mat, but no sign of the girl. I check out the bed of the truck. It contains a wooden plank, a shovel, a hoe, and a pitchfork, as well as a mound of something covered with a blue plastic tarpaulin. I lift a corner and look underneath.

Mud. Who puts mud in the back of their truck?

I squint out at the fields. On the north side of the road they're grassy and flat, but on other side they're hilly and dotted with bushes and trees.

I think about looking for the girl, but why? It's not like we're best buds. Far from it. And it's not as if she can tell me anything about Sam. He would have been gone long before she was even born. And even if she did know something, she's such a grouch, she would never tell me.

That's when it dawns on me that it's time to leave — not just the fields and this muddy road, but Farrow. The prospect catches me by surprise and makes me sad. Not just because I'm no closer to finding Sam than I was before I came, but because I'll sort of miss the place. In two short days, Farrow has grown on me. It has a laid-back feel that reminds me of Sam. The people are characters, and in its own way the town is charming. The truth is I'll probably never be back, because if what everyone says is true, there will soon be no Farrow to come back to.

“Hey! Get away from that truck!”

I peer at the hilly field. The girl is staggering towards me behind a wheelbarrow piled with mud. When she reaches the road she lowers the barrow. She's puffing.

“What do
you
want?” she grumbles.

“Absolutely nothing,” I say, stepping out of her way. “I took a wrong turn, and this is where it brought me. What are you doing here?”

She glares at me for a second before lowering the truck's tailgate and pulling back the tarp. “Did anybody ever tell you you're nosy?”

“Curious, not nosy.”

“Same thing,” she grunts and starts to shovel the mud into the truck.”

“Why are you collecting mud?”

“Clay, not mud.”

“Same thing.”

She snorts and shakes her head. “Shows what you know.”

A raindrop hits me on the top of the head, and I look up. “You better speed up your shovelling,” I say. “It's starting to rain again, and I'd hate for your mud to get wet.”

She doesn't answer, just keeps on shovelling. When she's finished, she pulls the tarp back in place, slides the plank out of the truck to make a ramp, and pushes the wheelbarrow up it. Then she returns the plank to the bed of the truck and hops into the cab.

It would appear our conversation is over, so I head back to my Honda. “Good talking to you. Have a nice day,” I jibe as I pass her.

I start the car and switch on the windshield wipers. The rain is already coming down faster than they can sweep it away. Before pulling onto the road, I check my rear-view mirror to see the girl throw up the hood of her truck and stick her head inside.

Uh-oh. I put the car back into park, grab my umbrella, and head into the rain.

I join her under the hood. “Won't your truck start?”

She fiddles with some wires then climbs into the truck and turns the key. The motor chokes a couple of times, wheezes, and then dies. She turns the key a couple more times, but there's nothing. The girl gets out, slams the door, and then slams the hood down too.

“Damn battery's dead.” She scowls at me like it's my fault.

“That's not good,” I say.

“No kidding.”

“So now what?”

Her tone is only slightly more civil as she asks, “Do you have jumper cables?”

“Considering I have no idea what jumper cables are, I couldn't tell you,” I confess, “but we can look.”

I pop the Honda's trunk and she roots around inside but comes up empty.

I gesture to my car. “I can give you a ride back to town.”

She shakes her head. “I'll wait in my truck for the rain to stop.”

I make a face. “And then what? Will the battery miraculously come to life again? Or were you planning to walk to town? If it rains much more, the road will be like quicksand.”

She ignores me.

“You're just being stubborn,” I tell her as I head back to my vehicle. “You don't have a choice, and you know it.” I open the door and look back at her. “I'm leaving. So what's it going to be? Do you want a ride or not?”