Lost Girls

''And why's that, then?''

''To help me forget.''

''Forgive me now, Mr. Crane. But you'd think a son should never have to feel ashamed to carry his own father's name.''

''He's not what I'm ashamed of, Mrs. Arthurs.''

She pulls herself soundlessly forward in her chair, the fading light from the kitchen window seeping through her hair pale as ash. Strokes a hand down the length of her neck and pulls the skin tight from her chin. For a moment her face becomes a hollow mask. Deep in their sockets, eyes belonging to a stranger behind it.

''They said you might have been the one,'' she says, bland and even. ''That you drowned the girl yourself.''

''And what do you think?''

''I'm asking you.''

The moth at the window again but softer now. For what might be a minute or two there's nothing but its last feathery swats against the glass, flipping like dealt cards on the sill.

''Her name was Caroline,'' I say, eyes fixed on a silver cobweb sprayed into the corner above her head. ''I think you would have to say we were in love. Or as much as kids can be in love. Kissin' cuzzins. But that day out in the canoe I tried to go further and I scared her.''

''An accident, then.''

''An accident. But accidents have causes.''

The old woman's hands lock together into a sleeping spider on her lap.

''I tried to save her,'' I go on as though asked to. ''Went down to pull her up but she was too heavy. Or I wasn't strong enough. Or something. And I remember it was cold, just a couple of strokes down from where the sun touched the surface. So cold, it got harder than water, like solid rock.''

All of Mrs. Arthurs enlarging now, pressed-in eyes brought closer to mine. Below them her fingers awaken to scuttle forward to the ends of her knees.

''I guess I must have panicked,'' I'm saying, the words delicate and moist as popped bubbles. ''Didn't think I had enough air to make it back up. That if I held on to her any longer she might take me down with her. But now I'm not so sure. Maybe I didn't even try. Not really. Maybe I just gave up.''

''Now--''

''I looked back. There was definitely enough time for that. If I was really about to drown would I have taken the second or two or three or however long it took to stop and open my eyes? No. But that's exactly why I did it. I looked because I knew there was enough time.''

''You were too young to remember all that. People forget the worst things, don't they, over time. Or make other things up in their place.''

''But I remember now. Caroline reaching her hands up to me close enough that I could feel them brush across the bottom of my feet. And her scream that let the water in. Knew I could have saved her even then and all I did was watch her go.''

''There's no--''

''I could have.''

''Really no need for--''

''I could have saved her.''

Holy Jesus then I'm in her arms. A blubber-faced child wiping my nose on her cardiganed shoulder that smells of bacon and almonds and bedpan. Everything inside me exploding off its hinges. A turning screw that rips up through organs and bone. For a moment. Then I'm pushing away, fingertips digging at my eyes, assembling myself with a pair of bruising gasps. If one were standing behind me it might have appeared only as an incoherent lunge forward that fell well short of an embrace. Nothing more than a momentary loss of balance on my part, legs fallen asleep from sitting too long on the edge of a too-small chair.

''God, I'm sorry.''

''Nothing to be sorry about.''

''I'm afraid you're wrong about that.''

Both of us turn our eyes to the dripping hair on the table. Watch it as though expecting it to move, and in the flickering light of the fire it almost does.

''Well, well, well,'' she says after a long while before another while passes in silence. Then, just as I'm convinced she's about to announce there's no way, she'll have nothing to do with dead little girls' hair, it would be wrong to pretend something that wasn't true before a court of law, she has no choice but to have me reported, she accepts.

''Just hand it over to the police in town, you say?''

''That's right. They'll take it from there.''

''Fine, then, Mr. Crane. Though I won't do it as a favor to you. I'll do it as a favor to the wee ones. For we couldn't leave the poor things' hair just sitting there, could we?''

''No, I don't think we could.''

She nods, and I down the still-scalding coffee in two gulps. When I place the cup back in its saucer on the table I notice that a small pool of green water has formed there from the slow but unstoppable drip that comes off the hair sticking out one end of the package.

I rise, unsteady as a marionette. But when I throw on my coat it's noticeably lighter on my shoulders. ''Incredibly sleepy all of a sudden,'' I say, startled by an instant yawn.

''Know the feeling. First sign of old age.''

Rattle at the door handle before the latch pulls back and it swings open. Long enough for Mrs. Arthurs to get up herself and place a dry hand against my cheek, knuckles the size of chestnuts rolled across sharp stubble.

''Did you see her, then? The Lady? Did you see her for yourself ?''

''I've seen her.''

''I knew you would. As soon as I laid eyes on you I knew you'd be one to understand.''

Turn to face her but the pale outdoor light has washed her away, an X ray exposing vague bones within a membrane of skin.

''I'm very sorry about your daughter, Mrs. Arthurs,'' I say, and collect her briefly at the shoulders. Careful, hesitant, the way you would lift a crystal bowl up into your arms. And she gives herself over to my grasp, empties her lungs in a surrendering sigh.

''Well, bye now, then,'' I say when there's nothing left of her.

''Good-bye, Richard,'' she says.

I'm stepping back up toward the trail. But before I make it the old woman calls after me.

''You know, I never believed you did it, what they said you might have done. I got an eye for these things, and I always thought you weren't the kind.''

She means well by this, I know. But I keep walking, head down, without turning back.

chapter 46

Helen Arthurs, widow of Duncan Arthurs, did exactly as she agreed she would do. The day after our meeting Goodwin called to tell me that significant new evidence had been discovered washed up on the shore of Lake St. Christopher by a permanent resident with ''considerable credibility within the community'' and would I consent to its being sent to Toronto for high-priority DNA testing or would a motion before Justice Goldfarb be required? With some obligatory grumbling my consent was granted. The trial was adjourned, the jury advised to speak to no one regarding the substance of the case for the duration of their time away from court, et cetera, et cetera. Then we waited. Snow fell, melted, fell again, melted, and on the third falling stayed on the ground with a look of serious intentions about it. I spend the better part of my time lying in the honeymoon suite's bed reading back issues of Elle and Vanity Fair borrowed from the Murdoch Public Library and gingerly drinking myself to sleep. In the mornings I write down what I remember of my dreams from the night before. In time I start to see all the characters as messengers.