The Unlocking Season Page 4

  The grandkids and their parents were out in the backyard, so Georgie and I sat at the butcher block table.

  “We haven’t mentioned Roy today,” I said. “Have you heard anything?”

  Georgie shook her head. “Ainsley isn’t taking my calls,” she said. “I’ve been in touch with other members of the crew, but they say that Ainsley’s shut them out. She’s the only one who speaks to Roy’s doctors, and she’s not sharing information.”

  “That doesn’t seem right,” I said. “Roy has good friends on the crew.”

  “Including me,” Georgie said. “Not knowing what’s going on is unsettling.”

  “Everything about this is unsettling,” I said. “Last night when Ben Bendure called to let me know he couldn’t come to lunch he told me that the night before, he’d had a phone call from Roy.”

  Georgie tensed. “The night before last?” she repeated. “Did Ben remember the time?”

  “No,” I said. “Ben had been sleeping, and he was groggy. He did remember that it was dark outside. Ben said Roy was incoherent — talking obsessively about decay and the intensity of colours and the white light that was holding everything together. When Ben tried to get Roy to clarify, he became agitated, and the call ended.

  “Yesterday morning, Ben tried to phone Roy, but there was no answer. Ben assumed Roy had been drinking the night before and was sleeping it off, but later when he checked his phone, Ben saw that Roy had sent him at least a dozen exquisite close-up photos of trees, undergrowth and rotting stumps. Ben said the photos were as intricate as a tapestry.”

  “Roy must have taken those photos in the afternoon, but a few hours later he was on all fours, scratching at the earth, barely human.” Georgie leaned towards me. “What could have happened to him in those hours?”

  “Ben thinks it’s possible that Roy used a hallucinogen and had a bad reaction.”

  “Roy wouldn’t have used drugs.”

  “That was my response too,” I said. “But apparently Ben and Roy had talked frequently in the past few weeks. Roy was suffering from a severe case of writer’s block. He was desperate, and Ben’s theory is that he might have tried to use a hallucinogen to get past the block.”

  “Why didn’t Roy talk to one of us?” Georgie was clearly exasperated. “We could have made sure he got the help he needed. Jo, I can’t believe he wouldn’t have told Ainsley.”

  “He might have,” I said. “I made the mistake of calling Ainsley last night and telling her about Ben’s theory. I thought if Roy had used a hallucinogen, the doctors treating him should be aware of it. Ainsley reminded me that Roy was her concern, not mine, and said that if I mentioned the possibility that Roy had used drugs, the damage to his reputation would be devastating.”

  “I’m surprised she picked up,” Georgie said. “I imagine she won’t next time.”

  “So we wait, and we hope.”

  “That’s about it,” Georgie said. “Would you mind if I said my goodbyes and went back to the office? I’m trying to make sure I’m on top of everything.”

  “That makes sense,” I said. “Georgie, I’m really glad you came today.”

  “So am I,” she said. “There aren’t many kids in my world. They’re kind of fun, aren’t they?”

  “They are, and Georgie you’re always welcome here. I hope you know that.”

  She reached out and gave me a quick hug. “Thanks for everything.”

  * * *

  By three o’clock, the Kilbourn-Dowhanuiks and the Crawford-Kilbourns, churched, fed and ready for the next adventure, had headed home with leftovers and fancy chocolate rabbits, but Zack and I had asked Vale and Taylor to stay behind so we could tell them about Roy.

  It was a task I did not relish. Both women were fond of Roy. As Taylor said, Roy had brought Vale and her together, but even before that he had found a special place in her life. When he learned of the connection with Desmond Love, Roy invited our family to New York to see The Happiest Girl. The trip was Zack and my present to Taylor when she graduated from high school. Roy had been a generous host, and he ruefully admitted, “Taylor had me at a glance.” As a dancer who left Regina at seventeen with Ainsley Blair to begin his career in musical theatre, Roy’s advice to Taylor about building a career in the arts was solid, and she and Roy stayed in touch.

  Since grade eleven, Taylor had planned to attend OCAD, an art, design and media university in Toronto, but when September rolled around, our daughter announced she’d decided to take a gap year. Taylor had inherited her birth mother’s prodigious talent as a visual artist, and at seventeen, her work was already being purchased by knowledgeable collectors. Roy pointed out that Taylor already had the career that for many first-year students at OCAD would still be a distant dream, and there were other possibilities she might consider.

  That winter the film adaptation of The Happiest Girl was being produced in Regina, and Roy encouraged Taylor to take advantage of the opportunity to see how a movie was made. Filmmaking was a new world for Taylor, and she was intrigued. When she and Vale Frazier, who played the lead role in the film, developed a romantic relationship, another new world opened for our daughter.

  As the four of us sat at our kitchen table now, and I told Vale and Taylor about Roy’s disappearance on the island, his bizarre behaviour when the crew found him and the decision to airlift him to Royal University Hospital in Saskatoon, I attempted to keep my tone matter of fact. But there was no way to minimize the horror of what had happened, and the expressions on the young women’s faces shifted from concern, to disbelief and finally to shock. When I said that Roy’s prognosis was uncertain, Vale reached across the table to take Taylor’s hand.

  “They have no idea what happened?” Vale said.

  “None,” Zack said. “The tests show he suffered a massive heart attack — clearly related to what went on in the hours he was separated from the others, but no one knows what actually transpired.”

  “Ben Bendure suggested one possibility,” I said. When I told them, Taylor’s head shake was vehement. “No. Roy told me he came close to destroying his life with drugs. He would never have gone down that path again.”

  “He might have believed LSD would lead him down a different path — a positive one,” Zack said.

  “Ben told me something that bears that out,” I said. “The afternoon Roy was lost, he sent Ben photos: close-ups of forest undergrowth that were much like Ernest Lindner’s work.”

  Taylor’s dark eyes were troubled. “Last week Roy called and asked me about magic realism in visual art. It had been so long since I’d heard from him, I jumped at the chance to connect. I told him I had a book about Lindner’s life and work, and I’d bring it by his apartment. I was hoping that Roy would invite me in and we could talk the way we used to, but he just took the book, thanked me and closed the door.” The smile she gave Vale was rueful. “Now I wish I had the book. There aren’t many illustrations in it, but there are enough to give you an idea of what we’re talking about.”

  “All is not lost,” Zack said. “We have some limited-edition prints of Lindner’s work. I know exactly where they are, and I’ll get them.”

  “Jo and Ernest Lindner were friends for years,” Taylor said. When my daughter’s lips twitched mischievously, I knew she was trying to lighten the mood. “Jo, why don’t you tell Vale how you met Ernie?”

  I turned towards Vale. “It was not my finest hour,” I said. “It was during a provincial election, and I was door-knocking in the Nutana area of Saskatoon because they were short of volunteers. On the voters list Ernie had listed his occupation as painter. When I knocked at his door on 9th Street, I explained who I was and then I said, ‘Exactly what do you paint?’ Ernie invited me in, and when I saw the art on his walls, I could hardly breathe. He made me a cup of the best coffee I’ve ever had, and we talked about his life in Austria and his art.”

  “Until
he retired, Ernest worked as an instructor at a technical collegiate,” Taylor said. “His work has the kind of precision you see in architectural drafting.”

  Zack wheeled back in and placed the print of Ernie’s painting of a decaying tree stump on the table. When Vale leaned in to look more closely, her shining auburn hair fanned across her pale cheek, and it was clear why the camera loved her. Her study of the drawing was intense. “He takes you inside that tree stump,” she said finally. She straightened. “We’re still in our world, but our world has expanded to include the colours and the textures of the world inside that stump.”

  “The magic is all around us,” I said. “That’s what Roy wanted to show in Sisters and Strangers.”

  “And he was doing it,” Vale said. “That scene at Saugeen Reserve where Sally and her father are sitting on the hill overlooking the lake and the band of wild horses suddenly appears and streaks downhill to the water is amazing. But it’s the way Roy shows how Sally perceives the scene that makes it magic. The horses are just a few metres away from her and from her viewpoint the horses’ coats really are so black they’re almost blue, and their hooves really do move so fast they barely touch earth.” As Vale described the scene, her turquoise eyes shone and her face was radiant. “And then,” she said, “comes that heart-stopping moment of absolute silence and Sally sees that the blue horses truly have lifted into the air and they are flying. Of course, the moment doesn’t last. When the horses reach the lake, they’re earthbound again — just ordinary horses, splashing and whinnying. But Sally knows that what she saw was real.” Vale’s voice, always low and husky, had a thrilling intensity. “Roy knew how to make an audience feel the wonder. That was his gift. I understand why he would risk everything to have the gift returned to him.”

  Her words struck a nerve with our daughter. “What would you do if you knew you could never act again?” Taylor said, and there was a note of urgency in her voice.

  Vale looked puzzled, and I realized that for her the answer to Taylor’s question was self-evident. “I’d die.”

  Taylor’s dark eyes searched her lover’s face. “What about us?”

  “If I couldn’t act, there’d be no ‘me’ for you to love,” Vale said. She shook herself as if shedding the words she’d just uttered. “I’m sorry, Taylor. I thought you understood that.” She offered Taylor her hand. “Now, we really should get back to the lake if we’re going to take that walk around the bay.”

  Chapter Three

  After I promised we’d call if there was news of Roy and we said our goodbyes, Zack and I watched at the door until Taylor’s Volvo turned onto Albert Street.

  “Vale is a complex young woman,” I said.

  “She is,” Zack said. He turned his chair towards the hall, but he didn’t move. “Do you think Vale loves Taylor?”

  “I do,” I said after a moment’s consideration. “They’ve been involved for over a year. I don’t think Vale knows how to handle her own feelings. She hasn’t experienced much love in her life. Her father moved to Los Angeles when Vale was a baby. He’s an actor in a soap opera. He married again and has a new family. Vale’s mother is an actor in New York. She and Vale shared an apartment, but I think that, except for her agent, Vale’s always been pretty much on her own.”

  “When Vale said that if she couldn’t act, there would be nothing in her for Taylor to love, I thought of the first night she came to our house for dinner and told that harrowing story about how she was playing Tiny Tim in A Christmas Carol and the actor playing Bob Cratchit was carrying her on his shoulders, and he was so drunk, he lost his grip and let her fall to the stage.”

  “And how before she was carried offstage and taken to the hospital she adlibbed a line about Jesus always being especially gentle with children because he knew how easily children break,” I said.

  Zack had a reputation as a courtroom Prince of Darkness, but he was vulnerable to children. “Seven years old and already the consummate professional,” he said, and I could hear the pain in his voice. “Vale deserves to know love. And if anyone can show her what love is, it’s our daughter.”

  “I agree.” I yawned. “I think the last forty-eight hours just caught up with me. I could use a nap.”

  We slept for an hour and then we made love. When we’d finished, Zack drew me close and said, “No matter how bad things get, this always makes life better.”

  “All is for the best in this best of all possible worlds?”

  “No,” Zack said. “This world is far from perfect, but when you and I are together like this, it’s pretty damn good.”

  We settled back, and we must both have been half-dozing when I heard Charlie D calling our names. I slipped into my robe and still barefoot, made my way up the hall.

  Charlie D took one look at me and lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry, I should have rung the doorbell.”

  “From the time you were old enough to reach our doorbell, you never rang it. You just walked in like everyone else in the family. So what’s up?”

  Charlie D sighed. “Nothing good. A buddy of mine is part of the crew that went up to Emma Lake. They’ve been taking shifts at the hospital with Ainsley. You should sit down.”

  “What is it?” I said, ignoring his invitation to sit.

  “Roy Brodnitz died an hour ago.” Charlie D put his arm around me. “I wish it hadn’t ended this way for him.”

  “So do I,” I said. “Zack should know what’s happened. Let me get him.”

  When Zack and I returned, Charlie D was sitting at the kitchen table. “So what can you tell us?” Zack said.

  Charlie shrugged. “Not much. Roy had a second heart attack a couple of hours ago, and it killed him. The doctors are very interested in what caused his total disintegration before he had his first heart attack. Roy had a thorough physical examination for Living Skies’s insurance company less than a month ago, and he was in excellent health. They want to do an autopsy, but Ainsley Blair is fighting it.”

  “She and Roy worked together for thirty years,” I said. “He told me she was like a part of him, and he of her. I understand why she’s protective.”

  “But what is she protecting him from?” Zack said. “An autopsy is a fact-finding tool. The doctors simply want to find out what happened that afternoon; I expect the Prince Albert police are curious about that too. I don’t get why Ainsley doesn’t want answers. People confronted with a sudden and seemingly inexplicable death are always left with a hundred small questions that boil down to one big question: ‘How could I have stopped this from happening?’ More often than not, the autopsy report shows there was nothing they could have done. They still mourn, but they’re at least freed from guilt.” Zack’s tone was lawyerly; even when something affected him he still stuck to facts.

  “Ainsley wouldn’t find much comfort in knowing what caused Roy’s death,” Charlie D said. “He died of a broken heart. The prospect of living without writing killed him.”

  “Where’s that coming from?” I said.

  “Roy’s own words,” Charlie D said. “When I leave here, I’m going to the station and my producer and I are somehow going to edit the three hours of raw, soul-baring material we recorded into an interview that will give our listeners insight into a decent, talented, tortured man who fought the good fight and lost. And I honestly do not know how we’re going to do it. If all that mattered was ratings, we could do a quick clean-up of what we have and use as much time as it took to air the gut-wrenching account of a human being’s disintegration. It would be a grabber, and it would probably increase the ratings in the U.S. markets we already have and attract more.”

  “But Roy deserves better than that,” Zack said.

  “I agree,” Charlie D said. “And we can do that too. We can edit out all the blood, pain, sinew and tears and give our listeners a nice sanitized interview to listen to as they go about their daily business.”

>   “Maybe you’re overthinking this,” I said. “Roy told me once that on a movie set the writer is the eunuch in the harem. I suspect that’s equally true after the production is finished. For an audience, the writer is just a name on the credits. I imagine most of your listeners won’t even have heard of Roy.”

  “That would be true in most cases,” Charlie D said. “But Roy Brodnitz made himself the story. Roy’s story is classic: his lover dies; he descends into the pit of depression; he indulges in risky behaviours; and just when he’s on the point of complete self-destruction, he sees Des Love’s painting of the northern lights in a gallery window and something in that painting heals him. He writes The Happiest Girl, it’s a megahit on Broadway and it’s just been made into what promises to be a megahit movie.”

  “But the story doesn’t end there,” I said.

  “No, and that’s where I need a little guidance, Jo. When I’m interviewing someone, I feel this jolt when I know that what they’re saying comes from a place that they may not be aware of themselves. It’s a rush, and usually I just try to run with it and keep them talking, but from the moment Roy opened up about how he felt when you agreed to collaborate with him on Sisters and Strangers, he couldn’t stop.

  “He was back in the moment, and when he talked about the day he saw Flying Blue Horses, and you told him the story behind Sally’s painting, and later when you introduced him to Ben Bendure, and the two of you started working together, he was exuberant.”

  “But the exuberance didn’t last,” I said.

  “No, when he started telling me about Gabe Vickers’s death and the aftermath, Roy was overwhelmed by despair. He said he had been relieved when Vickers died because Vickers had caused Ainsley so much pain, but after Vickers’s death, something went dead in him. He couldn’t write Sisters and Strangers the way it had to be written. He was empty.”