From the Chrysalis: a novel Page 2

  “What are you doing that for?” she snapped, though she was enchanted by the subtle movements of his chest muscles in the sunlight. She blinked, determined to keep her eyes above his waist. Her twin brothers were only twelve. She had never seen a grown man naked. She didn’t want to now. Not even Dace.

  “Don’t,” she said, anticipating he would remove his shoes and the rest of his clothes. She squeezed her eyes shut when he did. That thing. It was somehow incongruous. And much bigger than she had expected. Almost another entity, in fact. And why was it so red?

  He laughed, a changed person, stretching his arms towards the sky, unfettered, free. Like he owned the world, no matter what had happened, no matter what he couldn’t quite confess. He grinned at her, raising an eyebrow. “Let’s go swimming.”

  She couldn’t look him in the face. “My parents would kill me. I didn’t bring a bathing suit,” she demurred, realizing her continued presence had already implied consent. It was too late to run.

  “Uncle Eddie and Auntie Maeve are busy. Eddie’s with his brothers and Maeve’s in the kitchen.”

  “My mother’s always in the kitchen.”

  “Go behind those old rosebushes and take your clothes off. Everything, little Liza. I promise not to look.”

  Hearing the strength in his voice, she almost obeyed. She wanted to, but she couldn’t. Because it was wrong. “Oh, c’mon. I read books,” she said, folding her thin arms across her chest and watching the Great Blue Heron.

  “Really?”

  “Yes, and that’s what all the boys say. Besides, the farm is an aunt-hill of relatives today. Somebody might see us. It’s broad daylight, you fool.”

  “An aunt-hill. Hey, that’s good.”

  “Well, it’s not mine. It’s from Louisa May Alcott’s Eight Cousins.”

  “Another book, eh? Don’t you want to live life instead of reading? Look, we can’t wait for cover of dark, little darling,” he countered. She couldn’t help but notice his organ, that thing, was still doing a salute. “If we come back tonight, the mosquitoes will eat us alive. Besides, what does a girl like you care what other people think?”

  Glancing at him sideways, she smiled. He had her there. She didn’t care what other people thought about her. She never had. If she had, she would have been in an Italian or Ukrainian clique at school.

  Besides, the water looked inviting, and he had used an endearment even after she’d called him a fool. He didn’t care what other people thought either. Come to think of it, the two of them had always done what they wanted to do when they were small. And although she had been younger, it wasn’t always clear who was following whom. Liza, Dace’s Mom had threatened on more than one occasion, you need a smack.

  “I don’t know. I don’t like other people knowing my business, that’s all,” she protested. A part of her wanted to oblige him, but she was reluctant to remove her clothes in front of him and lose face. And what if he didn’t like what he saw?

  “Me either, although in my case, it might be a little late for that,” he said, staring across the pond, where the Blue Heron had taken up residence on one foot.

  Liza folded her arms across her chest and groaned. “Oh, here we go again, all cloak and dagger. You’re like the mystery guest on Front Page Challenge. I’m sure it’s all right, whatever you’ve done.”

  “Well, I’m going someplace next week,” Dace said, moving closer to her as he talked. “Don’t believe what you read in the Maitland Spectator or the Toronto Star if it goes that far. My father’s convinced everybody already knows. But I don’t know. Why would they? They don’t want to know stuff like that about me, about one of their own. Still, he’s madder than a hatter. Worse than that, he’s just so low. Not that I blame him. Never mind, Liza. But the thing is, I’m not sure when I’ll see a girl again.”

  Ignoring his nakedness, she stared him in the face. “But why?”

  “You have breasts now. Show me you’re not a little girl,” he whispered, slipping behind her. He unzipped the back of her dress so fast she didn’t know what had happened until she felt cooler air kiss her back. Shrugging a little, she stepped out of the dress and plunged into the water in her bra and panties, just to cover up.

  “I told you to take everything off,” he said, following. He caught her around the waist and gave her a look that almost scared her. His eyes had narrowed and his mouth looked tighter.

  The tepid water was only about five feet deep and their feet were almost immediately anchored by weeds. No use swimming, she thought. They weren’t going anyplace. She sank underneath with him for more coverage, then felt his cool hands gloss over her breasts and slip between her legs. Although she had never touched herself down there, she let him.

  Briefly, her mind shut down. She had never felt this way before, so alive in her own skin. He broke the surface first, gasping and pulling her up with him. If he hadn’t, she might not have bothered to come up for air. She was ready to die right there, with him, in Uncle Tom’s pond. It would be all right. He lifted her high in the air, almost letting her fall. Her hair streamed over her shoulders. More, she thought, looking down into his laughing face, more.

  When she slid back down into his arms, she knew he would catch her. “Wrap your legs around my waist,” he urged her, then pressed his mouth against her throat. How did he know that what’s she had always wanted, somebody to kiss her neck? Dace, she thought, opening her mouth and laughing right out loud. What was I thinking? I can’t leave here. I belong here.

  The straps were still on her shoulders, but he pulled the cups of her plain white bra down, freeing her breasts. He could see them now, but she no longer cared. He bent his head and touched their tips with his tongue. “I guess you’re not a little girl,” he said, catching drops of water as they dripped from her little pink nipples into his mouth.

  Their hands were on each other’s shoulders when they heard Dace’s father. The sound of his voice started her heart thudding so hard it felt like a fish jumping in her chest.

  “What the hell are you two doing?” Uncle Norm stormed towards the shore, the late afternoon sun hiding his face. “Outta there now! You’re cousins, for God’s sake. Jumping, jumping Jesus Christ!”

  She was so scared she didn’t remember getting out of the water, much less letting go of him, but she must have, for she was scrambling into her dress and trying to slide into her shoes when he said, “I’ll write, Liza, I’ll write,” and left her at the shore.

  Chapter 2

  Biting Off More than She Could Chew

  Sorrow is knowledge: they who know the most

  Must mourn the deepest o’er the fatal truth,

  The Tree of Knowledge is not that of Life

  *[Lord Byron, “Manfred,” Act 1, Scene 1]

  A pity beyond all telling,

  Is hid in the heart of love.

  *[ W.B. Yeats, “The Pity of Love,” 1893.]

  Toronto, August 27, 1966:

  Dace didn’t write her, and she knew it was her own fault she was so disappointed. She must have heard or read him wrong. The sun had been in their eyes. What must her uncle have thought? For several nights afterwards, she hardly slept. Why in the world had she thought Dace might want to write to her? She was just a little girl, his cousin, and not even in high school yet. At least Uncle Norm hadn’t said anything to his brother. Her father would have killed her on the spot.

  Despite her doubts, she waited weeks for some word from him. Then one Saturday afternoon, when her father started yelling again, she set off for the big Central Reference Library. She always walked the streets when her father got mad, strolling past the shops on Bloor Street or Harbord, even heading all the way downtown. Sometimes she went into the Woolworth’s west of Christie and poked around the crowded aisles, but the stores were closed when she went out at night.

  Several dogs fenced in their backyards barked at her as she hurried down the dirt lane, but by the time she’d reached the main sidewalk they had gone back to drooling in the
shade. The man in the house across the lane who was always rubbing his groin had more endurance.

  “Madonna,” he called. He whistled through stained and broken teeth. “Very nice. You like some nice wine? Very nice, very sweet.” She hurried past him, eyes on the ground.

  It was the dog days of summer. School was about to start and this year she’d start high school, heading into the dauntingly huge building called Harbord Collegiate. She doubted she’d have much time to spare after September. She wanted to find more out about Dace and had put off this expedition for too long. After the family reunion at the farm, she had tried pumping her overworked mother for information, but to no avail. She didn’t know anything, except it had been difficult for his father to raise two kids alone. There might be something in the local newspaper though. Especially if it involved a lawyer and the courts.

  Liza was a little nervous about what her research might reveal, but anything was better than sitting on a kitchen chair in the shady alley beside her house, staring at her neighbour’s brick wall and trying to catch a breeze.

  Her hair hung halfway down to her waist, damp and cool, almost straight when it was wet. She wore white canvas sneakers, pedal pushers, and a green shirt, and carried a two dollar bill in her pocket so she could buy subway tickets. That was her allowance.

  Christie station, on the Bloor-Danforth line and one block north of her house, had been open for six months. The opening of the subway had been a big event. She loved the underground, the rush of adrenalin when the red rocket disappeared into the dark and the wind from the tunnel whooshed through her hair. Standing tall and waiting for the first sight of lights, she felt like the figurehead on the prow of a ship.

  The electrified rails scared her though, so she always stood well back on the platform, allowing twenty seconds to get into the subway car before the doors cut her in half. When the subway had opened on February 26 she had stayed on it for two hours straight, riding late at night in an almost empty car, Christie to Woodbine in the east, Woodbine to Keele in the west, then Keele back to Christie again.

  She’d had lots of time to walk and ride lately. Her parents were arguing more than usual, or at least her father was. Her mother never said much, not even when he shouted she had no control over the boys and she had damn well better get control of them soon, or he would have to knock some sense into them. Then they’d see. Liza escaped the house just before he shifted his attention to her. His problems with his daughter were more specific: her face had started breaking out and he couldn’t stand the way she looked.

  One of her school assignments the year before had been to research the educational system in the Australian outback. Her local library hadn’t had any information, so she’d gone to the Central Reference Library. After taking the subway from Christie to St. George, she walked the rest of the way. It was hot and humid in the city and the red-bricked buildings lining the street looked closed and unused. It looked like everybody else had stayed home.

  Upon reaching the biggest Carnegie library in Ontario, she climbed the grand stairway on the corner. She liked the building’s classical lines, the lavish medallions over the windows and the dentil moulding. As she entered the spacious hallway, which led to several well-proportioned rooms, she noticed the shades had been pulled down in all the long windows. The darkness meant it was a little cooler inside, but the compacted dust and ink of so many books made it difficult to breathe. Still, she felt at home here, protected from the blinding glare of the street.

  She took her time, almost afraid of what she might find now that she was finally here. She wondered if they even had copies of Dace’s hometown newspaper, the Maitland Spectator. Eventually she located the newspaper section on the first floor and walked around a couple of moments to give her eyes time to adjust. She stopped under a sign that said Index Table and practically crowed with delight when she discovered what was in one little box. From there she went to the microfilm for the Maitland Spectator, stored in filing cabinets along the farthest wall. The microfilms were filed by date, so it wasn’t difficult to find the one she wanted: July 1966. It was the newest film in the drawer. The last four weeks of the Maitland Spectator would be on newspaper shelves in the periodicals section, mauled over and incomplete.

  A sign warned her she was going to need a take-up reel, and she looked around again. Against the far wall stood an Information Desk, or at least that’s what the sign on the long, shiny surface said. Liza approached grudgingly. She hated asking for anything.

  “I’d like to borrow a reel, please, so I can use this,” she said.

  The young woman behind the desk glanced up from the document she was studying, brow creased with annoyance. “And do you have the right microfilm?”

  “Well, yes. There’s an index in that little blue box for the Maitland Spectator.” Smiling, Liza pointed to the Index Table on her left. That was a lucky find, for only major Canadian newspapers had been indexed in the Canadian Periodical Index.

  “Would you mind lowering your voice?”

  “Sure. I didn’t realize I was raising it,” she shot back, eyebrows raised.

  The clerk, wearing brown horn-rimmed glasses, her glossy brown hair in a perfect shoulder flip, handed her a plastic reel without another word.

  Liza stared at it, then quietly asked, “Excuse me, could you please show me how to set this up?”

  The woman waved her hand at other people milling around her desk. Why did everybody always come at the same time? Her phone had started to ring, too. She ignored it and glanced around, looking slightly confused about what to do next.

  She blinked up at a man by her desk. “Would you please form a line? No, we don’t do that here,” she said, turning back to Liza, but never looking her in the face. “Just follow the diagram on the reader. And mind the thirty minute time limit. Other people are waiting. Have you written your page numbers down?”

  “Yes,” Liza lied.

  The rest of the Newspaper Reading Room was busy. She found a free microfilm reader in the back of the room, but the moment she plunked down her cardboard box of microfilm beside the machine, the plastic spool burst from its container and reeled out onto the floor. Old people occupying the reader stations on either side of her glanced up in irritation, cross-eyed from perusing narrow columns of journalese.

  “Sorry,” she whispered. Retrieving the Maitland Spectator from under her chair, Liza spent the next six minutes trying to coax the plastic film from the left spindle onto the right. Her fingers sweated and slipped. Beginning to feel little frantic, she wiped them on her pants.

  Much to her relief, a disembodied voice to her right volunteered, “It’s supposed to go between those two plates of glass.”

  “Thanks,” she whispered back, reloading the film and turning the advance knob right.

  Ah, there it is. The whole newspaper page. Great! Her attention was snagged by a photo of a luckless blond who had been charged with speeding, rather big news in Maitland it seemed. What if she went through months of an unindexed newspaper looking for a small reference to Dace, perhaps in the Courts column, only to read a Maitland boy had spent a night or two in jail and was then released? She speed read the dates across the top of the pages for the first half of 1966, checking them against her mental list. The index references she had found must be about Dace. Surely no other Devereux could have made the news. Especially in Maitland.

  Small town life played out before her eyes until suddenly the news from July 14, 1966 was highlighted. Two-inch-tall letters on the front page screamed: Eight Nurses Strangled in Chicago. Oh God. That had been and was still such terrible news. It had happened the week after she saw Dace at the Farm. Thank God they had arrested Richard Speck.

  Of course Dace wasn’t on this page. What would he be doing there? What would he be doing anywhere in the company of a murderer? Still …

  Her hand stopped on the reel and she glanced at the big round clock on the wall. 4:30. Almost time to leave. Her scalp prickled. Don’t be a
coward, she admonished herself. It’s probably nothing, nothing at all. She scrolled to page three. The newsprint was hard to make out. Then she saw both Dace and a headline, centre page: Maitland Man Found Guilty Of Manslaughter In Neighbour’s Death. The photo was wallet-sized, but it was him all right. She fumbled with the focus below the screen, almost lost her place, and had to start over. Her heart hammered so loudly she could barely concentrate.

  Two Maitland residents, D’Arcy James Devereux, 17, and Rick Lowery, 16, have been charged in the shooting death of Alan Turbot, 38 on May 10, 1966. Turbot died from a single gunshot to his shoulder, which stopped his heart. Although Devereux and Lowery maintain they shot in self-defence …

  No, she thought, squeezing her eyes shut. No. She tried and failed to reconcile this newspaper report with the memory of water sluicing off Dace’s perfect body as he shallow dove after her into the pond. She took so many deep breaths the man to her left glanced over with some alarm, but she reassured him with a flicker of a smile.

  She drew closer, studying the grainy picture of her cousin accompanying the article. His grin tipped up the left side of his face so he looked like he was sneering, but it still felt so good to see his face. There were actually two small photos, plucked from a school yearbook. One was of Dace and the other was of his friend, Rick Lowery. They looked so young. Apparently Rick had provided Dace with an alibi after he’d fled the scene, and he might face charges of aiding and abetting a crime.

  Her face flushed, she reversed the microfilm, forcing herself to read some earlier articles, items the indexer must have missed.

  Accused testifies victim joked, “It feels good” … Pathologist says death caused by unattended bullet wound …