Patterns of Swallows (18 page)

*
* *

A merciful
Providence equipped the human body with a physical reaction that
brings a blessed, instant numbness to pains that are too great to be
endured immediately. Of course, it could be wondered (and often has
been wondered) why a
merciful
Providence would allow the human body (or the human soul) to endure
pains that are too great to be endured. But the astonishing truth is
that pains too great to be endured are endured regularly. Perhaps
only a merciful Providence knows how much pain can be endured by
having endured it; the rest of us would draw the line well back from
where the merciful Providence draws it. But then, the rest of us
don't see things from the perspective of the merciful Providence.

*
* *

Mrs. MacKellum was in shock.
Ruth had been in shock before, and she recognized the signs. She
understood that her mother-in-law was walking through the day in a
trance-like state that would have to evaporate eventually but, for
now, was keeping unwelcome thoughts and feelings at bay by erasing
all thoughts and feelings.

The car had been identified by
its license plate (and by the personal knowledge of the officers who
were acquainted with Guy MacKellum's car). But the body had to be
formally identified.

Graham's shock was beginning to
wear off. He'd seen the duty of identifying the body as his;
certainly not something that could be asked of his mother.

The acid of that experience had
corroded through the initial shock, though it in turn was leaving
another wave of shock in the place of the initial one.

The first days would be spent in
varying types and degrees of shock, Ruth knew. It was the days after
the first ones that she was dreading.

She
wouldn't feel things quite the same as the other two, but then she
wasn't as personally affected. Her role was just to
be
there
for Graham and his mother. Whatever good that would do. Maybe it
would do some. She didn't know.

"Have some more tea,"
she urged on her mother-in-law. She'd made it good and hot and
strong and sweet as those were the requirements for tea in treating
shock cases. Or so it seemed from all the books Ruth had read.

A little something stronger than
tea to slip into it would have done more good probably, but Mrs.
MacKellum would have refused the tea if it contained anything
stronger than tea. Even shock wouldn't have compromised her
principles.

"Do you think you could eat
anything? It might do you good. You haven't had anything all day."

"No, I can't. I really
can't," Mrs. MacKellum cried out as though eating at a time like
this would also compromise her principles.

"Graham, if I made you a
sandwich would you eat it?" Ruth tried her husband next.

Graham said, no, not to bother,
but when she put a sandwich in front of him he downed it without
noticing.

While Mrs. MacKellum's tea grew
cold in her cup and Graham munched absentmindedly on the sandwich,
they discussed the tragedy endlessly, saying the same things over and
over.

"It must have been a
hunting accident," Mrs. MacKellum said again.

Neither Graham nor Ruth knew
what to say when she offered the hunting-accident theory.

Graham said nothing, but Ruth
couldn't keep still.

"In March?" she said.

Graham gave her a look intended
to keep her still. If his mother wanted to believe in a hunting
accident, why couldn't his wife let her? Whatever helped at a time
like this.

"I don't understand it,"
Mrs. MacKellum continued. She hadn't heard Ruth. "Why would he
go hunting? He hadn't hunted in years and years. Not since he
started up the mill. I forgot he even had that old rifle. I didn't
even notice it was missing until ... until this morning ... after the
R.C.M.P. called. He must've come back to the house yesterday while I
was doing the marketing and picked it up. He must've decided on the
spur of the moment to go hunting."

"But when he was found,
wasn't he wearing the suit he had on at work?" Ruth asked
Graham.

Graham gave her another angry
look and said nothing.

"That's what I just can't
understand," Mrs. MacKellum repeated. "I just can't
understand it. None of it makes sense. It must have been a sudden
whim to go hunting."

Ruth bit her tongue. She wasn't
starting out very well in her
"just-being-there-for-Graham-and-his-mother in-their-loss"
role.

"Pat and Earl should be
here in an hour or two," Mrs. MacKellum said to no one in
particular. Pat and Earl's progress on the road was updated
regularly every half hour as Mrs. MacKellum kept an eye on the clock.

"Your tea's cold. I'll
make a fresh pot," Ruth said. She'd never felt so helpless.

*
* *

At one o' clock, the doorbell
rang. Ruth went to answer it. It was her mother-in-law's house, but
the least she could do was field concerned callers. She knew it
wouldn't be Pat and Earl. They'd arrived just minutes ago.

She couldn't imagine how word
had leaked out already. The police wouldn't have released any
details yet, and the family had been told that the man who had found
the body hadn't been near enough to know who it was. Yet word must
have leaked out somehow. Unless it was just a neighbour popping over
to borrow an inopportune cup of sugar.

It was Hank Harvey, the
bookkeeper for MacKellum Milling, and his face was more serious than
was its usual wont. He was normally phlegmatic in the extreme.

"Is Guy here yet? I don't
see his car," Hank said.

"You haven't heard, then,"
Ruth said. It was a statement, not a question. It was obvious he
hadn't heard.

"Heard what?"

"Then, why are you ...
(what she was about to say sounded harsh) ... I mean, what brings you
here today, then?"

"Heard what? Did Guy tell
you ... or wha'd'you mean? Wha'd'y'mean, 'heard'? What've you
heard? Yesterday, Guy asked me to meet him here today to discuss
something with his family. He didn't want to be the one ... but it
looks like you've heard it already."

"Guy ... he was found. In
the woods."

"Wha'd'y' mean 'found'?
You mean ... ? Was he ...?"

"He was dead. Shot. He
had his old hunting rifle with him."

"Oh, no! No, no, no! Not
that!" Hank said. Ruth pulled a chair out for him. He looked
like he needed one.

"You'd better come in and
see the family. Maybe you can shed some light on it," Ruth told
him.

"No, no! Not today.
Eventually. I'll have to eventually, but now's not the time."

Graham had come up behind Ruth
and heard the latter part of the conversation.

"Come on in, Hank. Please.
I think you should tell us whatever you came to tell us. Whatever
it is, we deserve to know the truth," he said.

Then Ruth noticed the file
folder in Hank's hands.

"You should know, Graham.
You'll have to know. And sooner would be better than later. But I
don't want your mother to know it yet. Not just yet, at any rate.
She doesn't need two blows in a row," Hank said.

"What is it, Hank? I've
got to know."

"Well, I'd better come in
and sit down then, Graham."

"Tea, Hank? It's good and
hot and strong. Take it with plenty of sugar, and it's supposed to
be good for shock," Ruth said.

How she wished there was
something more constructive to be done than offer around tea!
"No
thanks, Ruth. I'm fine. I'm not a tea-drinker."

"Coffee then?"

"No, nothing thanks. I'll
just tell Graham what I came to say, and I'll be on my way and leave
you folks to yourselves."

Ruth sank into a chair to hear
what Hank had come to say, too. She supposed she wouldn't be deemed
as frail at this moment as Graham's mother.

"I'll cut to the chase,
Graham. You're going to lose the mill. You'll have to liquidate
your father's assets. Your dad was on the point of doing so when he
... I guess he couldn't face it."

"I
thought that was what you were going to tell me. But what I can't
understand is
why
?
The mill was turning a tidy profit. I know it was. To me, it
looked like the business had never done so well. And lumber prices
were good. It doesn't make sense. There wasn't anything crooked
going on, was there?"

If Hank found the implications
of that last suggestion insulting, he ignored them.

"It's all here in this
file," he said. "I didn't know about its existence till a
few months ago. Your dad started playing the markets. There were
some bad investments ... It's hard to know exactly what happened,
really. I mean, I know what's all down in black and white as far as
the investments your dad started making and where the money started
leaking out. But what I don't know is why. He seemed to get into
the same mentality a gambler gets into at the poker table; it's the
closest I can come to telling you what happened. When he started
losing, he just started getting in deeper and deeper, throwing good
money after bad. But the thing we'll never know, I guess, is why he
started playing the markets in the first place."

"Wha'd'you mean?"
Graham demanded. "Was there something wrong about what he did?
Are you suggesting he embezzled or something?"

"No, no, nothing like that.
It was his money to invest. He owned the mill, after all. But the
money he was investing was money that needed to go back into the
mill. He started borrowing to pay expenses. The creditors ... I
mean, there's just ... well, there's not enough left to float the
business and pay off its debt."

"How much is 'not enough'?
How much is left?" Graham asked quietly.

"There's, well, there's not
enough."

"You mean there's nothing
left."

Hank didn't answer.

"What will Mom live on?"

"There's something else you
have to consider, Graham. It won't touch you. I mean, not directly.
You were technically only an employee. Your assets are safe. But
the bank owns this house. Your dad mortgaged this house and sank
that money into the mill, trying to regain the money he'd already
sunk."

"Well, I'll have to buy it
back for Mom."

"If you can. You could try
to get a loan. I know you're only renting the house you're in. You
have some collateral?"

"Yes, we own land.
Twenty-five acres. And a house on it," Ruth put in. "We
can sell it outright if that's easier. Maybe that would be better
than getting a loan."

"No.
You've never wanted to part with that land," Graham said. "We
can put it up as collateral, and I can work and pay off the loan in
time. We shouldn't sell your land."
"It's not
my
land, Graham. It's our land. And maybe it's time to sell it."

"It's not time,"
Graham said shortly. "We need it as collateral. Maybe I'd even
be able to buy back the sawmill."

"You might have a tough
time getting a loan of that size," Hank said cautiously. He
didn't want to articulate the idea that Graham may be seen by the
banks as a bad risk, being the son of the man who had just lost the
mill. After all, none of it was Graham's doing.

"It explains why Dad was
reluctant to make me a partner this year. He kept telling me, 'next
year, next year.' " Graham said, his mind off on another tack.

"What I can't understand is
how the whole thing snowballed the way it did. I can't understand
your dad starting out to make bad investments. He was a shrewd
business man. And he wasn't a gambling man, either. It was
completely out of character. I was floored when he told me he was in
trouble."

"The whole world's gone
crazy overnight from my point of view. If you have any more
revelations for me, bring 'em on." Graham's laugh was bitter.
"I'm getting used to 'em. I don't think anything will surprise
me ever again."

"I don't know how to ask
you this, Graham, but was it possible your dad maybe had some kind of
mental illness or emotional illness?"
"Now, that's
crazy!" Graham snorted. "Dad was as sane as anyone."

"I don't mean he wasn't.
What I mean is, did you notice any signs of depression?"

"Dad? Depressed? Not a
chance. It was just losing all that money that got to him. He
wasn't depressed until that happened."

"I don't mean just down in
the dumps once in awhile. I mean, well, chronically depressed. It's
not always obvious, you know, but if a person is chronically
depressed, it can affect all kinds of things – not just their
moods. Their thinking, their judgment."