Verdict in Blood

Chapter

5



The next afternoon, when Taylor came home from school she grabbed an apple and her cats and headed out to her studio to work. She went back after dinner. She continued the pattern all week. “I want the painting to be ready for Eli as soon as he comes back,” she said.

Taylor wasn’t the only busy member of our household. As the first Friday after Labour Day approached, it was clear that the aimlessness and languor of summer was well and truly over. Angus’s football team started practice, and his girlfriend, Leah, came back from theatre school in Toronto. I sorted my classes out and began to lecture in earnest. We all took turns visiting Eli.

Hilda spent Wednesday and Thursday downtown, continuing her investigation into Justine Blackwell’s affairs. She described her movement back and forth between the courthouse on Victoria Avenue and the shabby storefront offices on Rose Street that harboured Culhane House as spider-like. In her attempt to connect the disparate strands in the complicated web of relationships that Justine had established in her life, Hilda talked to everyone she could find who had known the dead woman, from the small circle of colleagues, family, and friends who had watched with dismay as she metamorphosed from figure of judicial rectitude into eccentric advocate for prisoners’ rights, to the ex-prisoners and their families and lawyers who exulted as Justine embraced their cause.

Often Hilda arrived hard on the heels of the police, whose frustration as they continued to come up empty-handed in their own investigations was growing. They weren’t short on suspects. Justine Blackwell had spent the last night of her life in a room filled with people she had sent to prison. The final year of Justine’s life might have been given over to making amends, but delayed charity can be cold comfort. Most of the guests at Justine’s party would have known only too well the truth of the old saw that “a man that studieth revenge keeps his own wounds green.” They would have known, too, that in the course of history few places have proven themselves more congenial to the study of revenge than the slammer.

The theory that Justine’s death had been an act of prisoner vengeance was given credibility by the nature of the weapon the police now believed had been used to kill her. On the night of Justine’s final party, Eric Fedoruk had presented her with handsomely engraved marble-based scales. The doorman at the hotel had seen Justine put the scales on the seat beside her when she stepped into her BMW, but they were nowhere in evidence when the police examined the car after Justine’s body was found. The scales still hadn’t been recovered, but the forensics unit, having examined both Justine’s injuries and photographs of Eric Fedoruk’s presentation at the banquet, had concluded that the marble base could have inflicted the fatal wounds. A healthy percentage of those who had watched the presentation had proven themselves adept at the art of assault with a deadly weapon. An equally healthy percentage had no alibi whatsoever.

The police weren’t alone in feeling disappointed that the truth about Justine was eluding them. Friday morning, when I came back from taking Rose around the lake, Hilda was sitting at the dining-room table surrounded by library books.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“I’m trying to unearth a few appropriate passages for Justine’s memorial service. It’s tomorrow.”

“I saw the notice in the paper.” I sat down in the chair across from her. “Do you realize we haven’t really talked about Justine all week?”

“You’ve had enough on your mind with Eli,” Hilda said. “Besides, all I’d have had to contribute was a litany of failures. I can’t even succeed at this.” She picked up the letter Justine had written her and slipped it into the book she was reading.

I glanced at the book’s title. “Montaigne’s Essays,” I said. “Searching for insights?”

“That’s precisely what I’m doing. Lucy asked me to choose some readings that would sum up her mother’s life.”

“Another task,” I said. “The Blackwell sisters must have decided you’re too useful to alienate.”

“That possibility has occurred to me as well,” Hilda said. “But their motives don’t interest me a whit. I’ve undertaken this assignment for Justine. I just wish I were making a better job of it. How can anyone sum up a life, if she’s not certain what that life truly added up to?”

“You’re no closer to understanding what Justine’s state of mind was in the last year of her life?” I asked.

Hilda frowned. “It’s as if I’m hearing about two separate and distinct human beings. Justine’s legal colleagues speak of her with pity and anger. The people at Culhane House talk about her as if she were a saint.” Hilda shook her head in a gesture of disbelief. “Joanne, I know that human beings contain multitudes, but as a rule one can reconcile the disparities.”

I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat down opposite her. “What was Justine like when you knew her first, Hilda?”

“Bright, independent, ambitious.” Hilda smiled. “I don’t mind admitting that I saw a great deal of myself in her. She was, as my beloved L.M. Montgomery’s Anne would have said, ‘a kindred spirit.’ ”

“Then I would have liked her,” I said.

Hilda took the compliment coolly. “Yes, you would have liked her. There was no reason not to. We met in 1946. I’d just bought my house on Temperance Street. It was a chaotic time, Joanne; the universities were jam-packed with returned soldiers. It was wonderful, but it was madness: students sitting atop radiators, on window-ledges, in the aisles, and still spilling out into the halls. Of course, housing was at a premium. That September, I decided that by offering room and board to a woman student, I could do a good deed and expedite the process of paying off my mortgage. I put a notice on the bulletin board in the administration building at the university. Within an hour, Justine, or Maisie, as she was known then, was standing on my doorstep.”

“Justine changed her name?” I asked.

“Justine changed both her names,” Hilda said. “She was born Maisie Wilson. Blackwell is her married name; Justine was her nom de guerre. The choice was a wise one. By the time I met her, it was plain that she saw her destiny as going far beyond that of a Saskatchewan farmgirl. For the future she had in mind, Justine was a much more suitable name than Maisie.

“I expect you can tell from the photographs in the paper that Justine was attractive, but in 1946 she was ravishing, no other word for it. Her hair was white blonde, and she wore it in a pageboy, as young women did in those days; it was immensely flattering. Her skin was flawless, and her eyes were the same colour as Lucy’s. Since the advent of contact lenses, I’ve seen a number of young women with those aquamarine eyes, but the shade of Justine’s was God-given. She had the same generous mouth Lucy has, and the same dazzling smile. When she asked me about the room, my first thought was that my house would be overrun with eager young men, so I asked her straight out how serious she was about her studies. She assured me there would be no late-night visitors, because her only goal in life was to graduate at the top of her class in law school.”

“I take it she realized her goal.”

“She did indeed. Top of her class. But she worked hard for it: left the house at seven sharp every morning; took one hour off for supper at five; then back to the library till it closed. It was a monastic life for such a handsome young woman.”

Hilda seemed about to let the subject drop, but I wanted to hear more. “You did like her, though,” I said.

Hilda seemed perplexed. “I’m not sure ‘like’ is the word I would use. I respected her. Justine knew what she wanted, and she went after it.”

“Dedicated and persistent,” I said. “She does sound like you.”

Hilda laughed. “Justine made me look lackadaisical. There was an incident the first year she lived in my house on Temperance Street that revealed her measure. I owned a gramophone and an extensive library of recordings, and when Justine moved in I invited her to make use of them. She never did. Then one day, I came home and found her listening to Manon Lescaut. She was reading the libretto, taking notes. She didn’t appear to be enjoying the music much, so I asked her if she liked Puccini. Justine said she didn’t have an opinion one way or the other, but one of the men in her class told her that the senior partner in Blackwell, Dishaw and Boyle, the law firm with which she planned to article, was an opera lover, and she wanted to be prepared. Three years later, when she walked into Richard Blackwell’s office, Justine Wilson could have won the Metropolitan Opera’s Saturday-afternoon quiz.”

“And she married the senior partner?”

“She did indeed – a month to the day after their first meeting. Richard Blackwell was twenty-five years older than Justine. He’d never married, and he was eager for a family. Justine complied. Signe was born in 1950, and the others followed. Justine never seemed very interested in motherhood. She was combative by nature, and she loved the rough and tumble of the courtroom. Richard retired to raise those children. He and his little girls became quite a well-known sight in Saskatoon.”

“A wife with a high-powered career and a husband who stays home with the kids – the Blackwells were about forty years ahead of their time,” I said.

Hilda’s face grew sad. “From what I saw, Richard Blackwell relished every moment he spent with his daughters. It’s too bad he didn’t have longer with them.”

“When did he die?”

“In 1967. I remember because he died at one of the banquets we had in Saskatoon that year for Canada’s Centennial. The Blackwells had moved to Regina by then. Justine had already made a name for herself as a criminal lawyer, but she was ready for the next stage. She wanted to be noticed by those who influenced judicial appointments. Richard had come back to Saskatoon for the dinner. I was there. It was terrible. There were hundreds of people in the room. Everyone was rushing about, trying to summon help. But nothing could be done. It was a heart attack. Massive. The worst thing was that Lucy was with him. Richard had brought her over for a chat when they came in. She would have been about fifteen, I guess, and she was so proud of being at a grown-up event with her father. Then, in an instant, he was gone. I’ve often wondered if that trauma spawned the need to be surrounded by men which seems to have been so much a part of her life.”

A line from one of Lucy’s songs came back to me. He painted a rainbow and took me along, then lightning split us, shattered my song. I turned to Hilda. “I think that’s probably a pretty solid observation.”

Hilda’s voice was thoughtful. “Justine didn’t appear to suffer any permanent ill effects from her husband’s death. Not long after Richard died, she was appointed to the bench. As I told that odious Detective Hallam, Justine and I lost touch except for the occasional lunch and holiday letters. Of course, Saskatchewan is a small province, so it was impossible not to hear news of her.”

“From farmgirl to Justice on the Court of Queen’s Bench,” I said. “Justine put together quite a life for herself.”

Hilda looked at me approvingly. “Thank you,” she said. “It’s amazing how often simply talking a problem through can help one solve it.” She picked up the book of Montaigne essays and read aloud. “ ‘What? Have you not lived? That is not only the fundamental but the most illustrious of your occupations.… To compose our character is our duty.… Our great and glorious masterpiece is to live appropriately.’ ” She cocked an eyebrow. “Well, is that quotation equivocal enough?”

I smiled at her. “As equivocations go, I’d say it’s almost perfect.” I touched her hand. “Hilda, let this be the end of it. You’ve already done more than Justine would ever have asked of you.”

Hilda shrugged. “Perhaps I have, but it’s still not enough. Joanne, you know as well as I do that fine words butter no parsnips. Montaigne’s Essays may get us through the funeral, but unless I discover the truth about Justine’s state of mind in the last year, her enduring epitaph will be written in tabloid headlines. She deserves better.”

“So do you,” I said, and I was surprised at the emotion in my voice. “Hilda, don’t let them draw you into this. Murder spawns a kind of ugliness that most people can’t even imagine. It’s like a terrible toxic spill. Once it splashes over you, you’re changed forever. Believe me, I know. Don’t let it touch you.”

Hilda’s expression was troubled. “It already has, my dear. Maybe that’s why I can’t just walk away. What kind of woman would I be if I just turned my back and let the darkness triumph?”

“There’s nothing I can say that will dissuade you?”

“Nothing.”

“Then at least promise me you’ll be careful.”

“I may be stubborn, but I’m not stupid,” she said curtly. “I’ve been given a long and healthy life, Joanne. I’m not about to jeopardize what any sensible person would realize is a great blessing.”


When Jill Osiowy, the producer of “Canada Tonight” and my friend, called my office later that afternoon, I was deep in weekend plans. Except for the usual round of Saturday chores, the next couple of days were clear, and I aimed to keep them that way. Our summer at the lake had been straight out of the fifties: canoeing, canasta, croquet, and a calm broken only by the chirping of crickets and the reedy voices of little kids calling on Taylor. I had come back from the lake with a tan and an overwhelming sense of peace. The tan was fading, and the events since Labour Day had made some major inroads on my tranquility, but in my estimation two days by the pool would go a long way to restoring both. If I was lucky, I’d be able to convince Hilda to join me.

“I hope you’ve got nothing more on your mind than chilled wine and serious gossip,” I said.

Jill laughed. “We have a little task first. How would you like to look at some videos of men doing interesting things?”

“It depends on the men,” I said. “And on the interesting things.”

“These men are auditioning for the chance to replace Sam Spiegel on our political panel,” she said. “I’ve tried to talk him into staying, but Sam says retirement means retirement from everything.”

“I’m going to miss him,” I said.

“Me too,” Jill said, “but, ready or not, life goes on, and some of these new guys might work out. The network’s narrowed it down, but I’d appreciate your input. Glayne’s still in Wales but she says she trusts your judgement.” Jill’s voice rose to the wheedling singsong of the schoolyard. “I’ll buy you a drink afterwards.”

“Okay,” I said. “And I’ll take you up on that drink. You and I haven’t had a chance to really talk all summer.”

“Good. I’ll meet you at the front door of NationTV at two o’clock.”

I’d barely hung up the phone when it rang again. It was Alex, and he sounded keyed up.

“Jo, I have another favour to ask. I just got back to the office and there was a message here from Dan Kasperski. He thinks Eli’s ready to come home.”

“That’s good news, isn’t it?”

“It is, except I have to go to Saskatoon. The cops there have a suspect they think I can help them nail. If I catch the seven-ten plane tonight, I can check out this creep and be back tomorrow afternoon. I hate to ask, but could Eli stay with you tonight?”

“Of course, as long as it’s okay with Eli.”

“It will be. Eli tells me he got pretty tight with you guys this week.”

“We enjoyed being with him, too. Look, why don’t you two come for an early supper? I could barbecue some of that pickerel we caught at the lake. A last taste of summer.”

“Can we bring anything?”

“Just yourselves. And Alex, tell Eli I’m really looking forward to seeing him.”

I hung up. I thought about my tan and my peace of mind. Both would have to wait. As Jill had said, ready or not, life goes on.


When Alex and Eli arrived, Eli was carrying his gymbag and a box of Dilly Bars from the Dairy Queen. He handed them to me. “Uncle Alex wanted to get an ice cream cake, but I thought these would be less trouble for you.” He grinned shyly. “You know – no dishes?”

“Good move,” I said. “And I love Dilly Bars.”

Dinner was low-key and fun. Taylor’s friend Jess joined us. He and Taylor were doing a school project on wildlife of the prairie, and in a burst of untypical enthusiasm, they’d decided to get started immediately. Hilda, who believed in rewarding zeal, however unlikely the source, had promised to take them to the Museum of Natural History after supper. It was a co-operative meal: I made cornbread; Taylor and Jess sliced up tomatoes and cucumbers from the garden; Hilda made potato salad; Alex barbecued the pickerel; Angus and Eli cleaned up. Afterwards, we ate Dilly Bars on the deck. Life as it is lived in TV commercials.

As soon as we’d finished dessert, Hilda took the little kids to the museum, and the big boys got out the croquet set and had a game with rules so bizarre even they couldn’t follow them. Halfway through the game, Eli came running towards us, whirling his croquet mallet above his head. “You can play if you want to, Mrs. Kilbourn, but this is a take-no-prisoners game. Play at your own risk.” Then he laughed the way a teenaged boy is supposed to laugh – wildly and uninhibitedly – and ran back to the game. I thought I had never seen him so happy.

Alex waited until the last minute to leave for the airport, and he looked at the yard regretfully before he went into the house. I slid my arm through his. I knew how he felt. After a troubling week, it seemed a shame to put a rent in the seamless perfection of the evening.

Before he picked up his overnight bag in the front hall, Alex pulled a notebook and pen out of his pocket and began to write. “Here’s the number of headquarters in Saskatoon, and here’s Dan Kasperski’s number in case anything comes up.”

“Nothing’s going to come up,” I said.

“Let’s hope,” Alex said. “Dan Kasperski says he can’t figure this one out. Eli’s doing a lot better, but he still has no memory of what he did in the time between the football game and his appointment with Kasperski.”

“Does Dr. Kasperski think that overhearing what those drunks said caused all of these problems for Eli?”

Alex’s jaw tightened. “He doesn’t know. His theory is that Eli had been carrying around a lot of unresolved emotions and that a*shole’s remark just tipped the balance.”

“The proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back,” I said.

“Something like that. Kasperski says it doesn’t add up as far as he’s concerned, but he’s been a shrink long enough to know that there are a lot of times when things don’t add up.”

Alex held me a long time before he opened the door. “I’m glad Eli’s going to be with you tonight.”

“It’s where he should be,” I said.

I watched until Alex’s Audi disappeared from my view. As I turned to go into the house, Sylvie O’Keefe drove up. She and I weren’t close, but I liked and respected her. She was a photographer whose work had brought her a measure of fame and more than a measure of controversy. Surprisingly, for an artist so provocative, she was a very traditional parent, who was raising her only child with a mix of love, discipline, and routine that appeared to be just the ticket. Jess was a thoroughly pleasant and happy little boy.

“How did Hilda and the kids make out at the museum?” Sylvie asked, as she followed me into the house.

“They’re not back yet, but I’m sure they triumphed. Things fall into place when Hilda’s around.”

She sighed. “I wish Jess and I had a Hilda in our life.”

“I’m certainly glad she came into ours.”

Sylvie furrowed her brow. “I always assumed you’d known her forever.”

We went into the living room and sat down. “No, not forever,” I said. “Just seven years. I met her when my friend Andy Boychuk died. She’d been his teacher. She and I became friends, and of course the kids loved her.”

Sylvie gazed at me assessingly. “It looks to me as if Hilda’s relationship with your family has been a good fit for everyone.”

“It has,” I said. “For a long time, I worried that it was pretty one-sided. Hilda always seemed to give us so much more of herself than we gave her.”

“But something changed?”

“Hilda had a gentleman friend. His name was Frank, and he was the love of her life. When he died last spring, she was heartbroken. We went up for his funeral; then Hilda came down and stayed with us for a couple of weeks. I think she was glad not to be alone, and of course kids are always such a great distraction.”

Sylvie grinned at me. “Aren’t they just.”

Right on cue, the front door opened, and the kids barrelled in, with Hilda behind them.

“How did it go?” Sylvie asked.

Jess went over to his mother. “You know those feathers owls have around their eyes?” Sylvie nodded.

“They help owls hear,” Jess said.

“How do they do that?” Sylvie asked.

Jess tweaked his own ear. “See this?” he said. “It catches the sounds and sends it inside our ears so we can hear. The owls’ ears are right behind those feathers.”

Taylor came over to me. “Could Jess stay over? It’s not for fun,” she said earnestly. “We need to work.”

“Sorry, T,” I said, “the owls will have to wait. We already have an overnight guest. Eli’s staying here tonight, and he could use a little peace right now.” I put my arm around her shoulder. “It gets pretty noisy around here when you and Jess are working on a project.”

Sylvie smiled. “I don’t mind a little excitement. If it’s all right with you, Joanne, the kids can work at our house tonight.”

Taylor’s eyes were pleading. “Can I?”

“Sure,” I said.

Taylor laid her head against my arm and lowered her voice. “After I go, make sure Eli goes to the studio to see the dragon-boat picture I made for him.”

“He’s right out back,” I said. “Why don’t you take him there now?”

She shook her head. “If I’m there, Eli won’t be able to really look.” She frowned. “Do you know what I mean?”

“Yes,” I said, “I know what you mean, and I think you’re right. I’ll make sure Eli sees the painting.”

After Sylvie left with the children, I fixed myself a gin and tonic and went up to my room to read. There was a new biography of the prime minister. The blurb on the jacket promised a Jungian exploration of the dark corners of his psyche. I had just about decided the PM was that rarest of beings, a man without a Shadow, when Hilda knocked on the door. She was wearing her dazzling poppy-red Chinese robe.

“I’m going to make an early night of it, Joanne,” she said. “It’s been a long day, and Justine’s funeral is at ten.” She leaned against the doorframe as if she were suddenly weary. “The last funeral I attended was for Frank,” she said softly.

“Hilda, would you like me to go with you tomorrow morning?”

“But your Saturday mornings are so busy.”

“There’s nothing that can’t be put off till later except for Taylor’s lesson, and Angus can drive her to that.”

“It would be good not to have to go alone,” she said. “And not just because tomorrow’s service will be painful. Joanne, you were right about the currents a murder sets loose. Sometimes this week, I’ve felt as if I were about to be swept away.”

“Then let me be your anchor,” I said. “You’ve been mine often enough.”

In all the time I’d known her, Hilda had never made a physical display of affection, but she came over, bent down, and kissed the top of my head. “I hope you know how much I cherish your friendship,” she said.


When I went downstairs to say goodnight to the boys, Eli was sitting at the kitchen doing a crossword puzzle. Angus was nowhere in sight.

I touched Eli’s shoulder. “Where’s your goofy friend?” I asked.

Eli gave me a small smile. “He went to Blockbuster to rent a movie.”

“You didn’t want to go with him?”

“No. I thought I’d just stay here.”

I pulled out the chair next to his and sat down. “Feeling a little shaky?”

He gazed at me. His eyes were extraordinary – of a brown so dark they were almost black. “More than a little shaky.”

“Taylor left a gift for you that might help,” I said. “It’s out in her studio.”

“What is it?” he asked.

“A surprise,” I said, “but in my opinion, a terrific one. Why don’t you go out and have a look while I call Mieka and Greg and see if that baby of theirs is any closer to joining the world.”

He started towards the door, then he stopped and turned. “Are you looking forward to being a Kokom?” he said.

“Yes,” I said. “I really am. I like kids. It’ll be fun to have a new one around.”

“I hope everything works out okay,” he said.

“Thanks, Eli, so do I.”

My older daughter answered the phone in a voice that was uncharacteristically gloomy.

“I guess I don’t need to ask you how it’s going,” I said.

“It’s not going at all,” she said. “I followed your advice about the Chinese food, and we’ve already scarfed our way through the whole menu at the Golden Dragon; I painted the kitchen ceiling; Greg’s lost seven pounds from all the long walks we’ve been taking; and here I sit, still pregnant, barefoot, bored, and in the kitchen.”

“Try to enjoy the moment,” I said. “When the baby comes, all that peace and quiet is going to look pretty good.”

As soon as I replaced the receiver, the day caught up with me. I decided to follow Hilda’s lead and turn in early. I had an extra-long shower, dusted myself with last year’s birthday bathpowder, put on a fresh nightie, and headed for bed. When I came out of the bathroom, Angus was sitting on my bed.

“Thanks for knocking.”

“I did knock. You were in the shower, remember?”

“Sorry. I was just talking to your sister, and I guess I’m a little on edge.”

“Still no baby?”

“No. It looks like your niece or nephew has decided to arrive on Mieka time.”

My son grinned. “Late. Late for everything.” He stood up. “Actually, what I came up for was to find out if you knew where Eli went.”

“Isn’t he downstairs?”

“Nope. I called and he didn’t answer.”

“He’s probably still out in the studio. Taylor wanted me to give him the dragon-boat picture. She noticed he wasn’t having a very easy time lately.”

Angus shook his head in amazement. “Most of the time she’s such a space-case, but every so often she tunes in.”

“When T comes home tomorrow morning, I’ll pass along your compliment.”

I’d just crawled between the sheets and was reaching to turn out the light when I heard my son racing up the stairs. He burst into the room.

“Mum, something’s the matter with Eli.”

I sat up. “What do you mean?”

“Just come and see him, please.” Angus’s voice was tense.

I grabbed my robe and followed my son downstairs.

“He’s out in Taylor’s studio,” Angus said.

When I opened the door, the breath caught in my throat. On the easel in front of me was the painting Taylor had made as a gift for Eli. Once every centimetre of that canvas had danced with colour. Eli’s painting of the black horse had obscured the brilliance. The lines of the animal’s body were graceful, but the place where its head should have been was a jagged edge, clotted and sticky with paint bright as fresh blood. The animal’s head was in the right lower quadrant of the canvas. Tongue lolling, eyes bulging, it was obvious the animal had died in terror. Eli himself lay in the far corner of the room; he was curled into the foetal position and moaning.

My son’s voice was a whisper. “What’s happening, Mum?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Go upstairs and get my purse. There’s a card inside with Eli’s doctor’s number on it. Call him and tell him we need to see him. Be sure he understands it’s an emergency.”

I took Eli in my arms and began to rock him like a baby. When Angus came back after making the call, I was still holding him.

“Dr. Kasperski’s coming right over,” Angus said. He bent closer to Eli and called his name.

When Eli didn’t respond, I saw the panic in my son’s eyes. “Why don’t you go upstairs so you can watch for the doctor,” I said. I tried to make my voice sound reassuring, but I was as scared as Angus was.

Less than ten minutes passed before I heard the doorbell, but it was a long ten minutes. Over the years, my own kids had had their share of broken bones, sprains, crises, and disappointments, and I had cradled them in my arms as I was cradling Eli. But after I had held them for a while, my kids had always responded. I had been able to feel them come back from the place of pain into which accident or misfortune had hurled them. Eli wasn’t coming back. He didn’t appear to be hurt physically, but his body was rigid. No matter what I did, I couldn’t reach him, and I was relieved beyond measure that someone who might be able to was on his way over.


When Angus came through the door, my first thought was that the young man with him was far too young to be a medical doctor. Dan Kasperski’s body was as lithe as an adolescent’s, and he was wearing the teenaged boy’s uniform of choice that summer: cut-off jeans, a rock-and-roll shirt, and sandals. He was deeply tanned, and his hair was black, curly, and shiny. He seemed to radiate energy. Without preamble, he knelt beside me, and reached out and stroked Eli’s forehead.

“Eli, it’s Dan,” he said firmly. “I need you to help me find out what went wrong here.”

At the sound of Dan Kasperski’s voice, Eli’s body relaxed and he opened his eyes. Kasperski slid his arm under Eli’s body and raised him to a sitting position. “Let’s talk,” he said.

“Would you like to go upstairs?” I said. “Eli’s bed’s already made up for him. He might be more comfortable.”

Dan Kasperski leaned close to Eli’s face. “What do you say, my friend?”

When Eli nodded, Dan Kasperski helped him to his feet, and I led them upstairs to my older son Peter’s room. As I closed the door behind me, I could hear Dan Kasperski’s voice, soft and persuasive. “It must have been a terrible thing to have made you so angry. Can you tell me about it?”

I decided not to call Alex until I’d had a chance to hear what Dr. Kasperski had to say. When I went back downstairs, Angus was sitting in the dark in the living room.

As soon as he heard my step, he jumped up. “What happened to him?”

I slid my arm around my son’s waist. “That’s what Dr. Kasperski’s trying to find out.”

“Did Eli say anything?”

“Not while I was there.”

“Why would he wreck Taylor’s painting, Mum? It was a present for him.”

“I don’t know. I guess he was just angry and confused.”

“Is that what we’re going to tell Taylor?”

I let my hand fall away from him. “Angus, I don’t know what we’re going to tell Taylor. And you might as well stop asking me questions because I don’t have any answers.”

“Mum, I don’t mean to keep bugging you, but Eli isn’t the only one who’s confused.”

“Angus, I’m sorry. It’s just …” My voice broke. “Everything’s too much.”

For a moment, we stood together miserably. It was my son who broke the silence. “Do you want me to dig out the cards? We could play a game of crib while we’re waiting.” His voice sounded the way it had when he was little and wanted the reassurance of one more story before lights out.

“You’re on,” I said. “Loser has to walk Rose on the day of the first blizzard.”

We were just starting what looked like the final hand when Dan Kasperski came downstairs. He leaned over and glanced assessingly at Angus’s cards. “If your mother’s playing for money, she’d better start collecting pop bottles.” Then he looked at me. “I gave Eli something to help him sleep. He’s down for the count, but you should get in touch with his uncle.”

“I will,” I said. “There’s a flight back from Saskatoon in about half an hour. He can catch that.”

“Good. Ask him to have Eli in my office by eight tomorrow morning. We need to get him working on this as soon as possible.” For a moment he was silent, then he looked at my son and me. “Do either of you have any idea at all what went wrong here?”

Angus shook his head. “No, I thought everything was great.”

“So did I,” I said. “We had a pleasant dinner. Eli said he felt a little edgy, but he seemed fine. My daughter’s an artist. She’d painted a picture for Eli – as a kind of welcome-home gift for him. She thought it would be easier for him to see the painting for the first time without the rest of us around. Anyway, Angus had gone to rent a movie, so I suggested to Eli that he might want to go out to the studio to have a look at Taylor’s gift. When Angus got back, he found Eli the way he was when you saw him.”

“Nothing happened …”

“Nothing ever does happen,” I said, and I could hear the frustration in my voice. “At least not anything concrete. He just explodes. Dr. Kasperski, I know there’s no magic bullet here, but surely you can do something to get to the source of Eli’s problems.”

Daniel Kasperski cocked an eyebrow. “Eli and I are doing something. We’re talking, remembering, reconstructing. It takes time, Mrs. Kilbourn.”

“But don’t some doctors use sodium pentothol or hypnosis to help them home in on what went wrong in the first place?”

He shrugged. “Some do. I don’t. Mrs. Kilbourn, think about it for a moment. Does it make sense to force a person as fragile as Eli to confront memories that are so powerful he’s using every ounce of energy he has to suppress them? I know this way takes longer, but when Eli finally does face his demons, I want him to be strong enough to stare them down.” He glanced at his watch. “I should be moving along,” he said, “but before I go, could I have another look at that painting? When I was in your daughter’s studio before, I was pretty much focused on Eli.”

Angus shot me an anxious look. “Do I have to go out there again?”

“No,” I said. “Why don’t you try to grab some sleep?” I turned to Dan Kasperski. “Follow me, but there isn’t much left to see.”

Dan Kasperski’s face was grim as he gazed at the canvas. “What did it used to be?” he asked finally.

“We were at the dragon-boat races Saturday,” I said. “That was a picture of Eli and my kids watching the finish line.”

“Does Eli like your daughter?”

“I thought he did.”

Dan Kasperski continued to stare at the picture. Finally, he turned to me. “Can I take this with me? Signe Rayner might want to use it somehow in her therapy.”

I felt a tremendous sense of letdown. “But I thought that you were Eli’s doctor now,” I said, and I was embarrassed at how forlorn I sounded.

He turned to me. “No matter how much I want to help Eli, Mrs. Kilbourn, he is not my patient. Signe Rayner is treating him. I’m just her surrogate.”

I handed him the painting. “From the way Eli reacted to you tonight, I think he sees you as more than a surrogate.”

Dan Kasperski frowned and looked away without responding.

“All right,” I said, “I understand your position. Since you’re not technically Eli’s therapist, maybe you could answer a question for me. Is there any reason you know of why a patient who was doing as well as Eli seemed to be doing would suddenly fall apart like this?”

“Sure,” he said. “He’s a human being.”

“Meaning?” I asked.

He laughed. “Meaning, as Albert Ellis once said, that Eli, like every human being who has ever lived, is ‘fallible, f*cked up and full of frailty.’ ”