On the other Hitchcock nights, my kids and I had second-guessed everything from hairstyles to characters’ motivations, but from the first frames of Vertigo we were rapt, wholly absorbed by this tale of a broken man clinging to the belief that he could be saved by a woman and of the woman who was the tragic object of his obsession. Even Angus was silent as the final credits rolled, stunned by the desolation of Vertigo ’s final image.
When Eli flicked the lights back on, Peter surprised me by asking if I wanted to go outside for some fresh air.
I grabbed a sweater, and we headed for the beach. As we walked out on the dock, I mulled over a dozen possible revelations, but Peter’s words surprised me. “How certain are they that Kyle Morrissey killed Ariel?”
I stopped and turned to face him. “Where did that come from?”
“I’d just like to know if the police are sure they have the right guy.” His tone was falsely casual. “I thought someone at NationTV might have given you some inside info.”
“We pretaped last week’s show, and I haven’t talked to anyone at the station since Ariel was killed. Pete, you’re not a ‘Hard Copy’ kind of guy. What’s all this about?”
For a moment, the only sounds were the slap of water against the pilings under the dock and the bark of a dog somewhere along the shore.
“It’s about Charlie Dowhanuik,” Peter said finally. “Ever since I heard about Ariel, I haven’t been able to get him out of my mind. We were never tight when we were in school. I always liked him, but he was so wild it was scary.”
“That wildness worried his mother, too,” I said. “She told me once that Charlie didn’t have friends, he had fans. Marnie thought other kids hung with Charlie just to see what he was going to do next.”
Peter laughed. “Yeah, he did bring new meaning to the term ‘living on the edge.’ And most of the time it was a lot of fun to be around him. But sometimes he was just too intense.” His eyes met mine. “Mum, he was always too intense about Ariel.”
“And that’s what’s worrying you now?”
“He was crazy about her – crazy in both senses. Any bone-head would understand him loving her. Even in high school, Ariel was absolutely stellar, but Charlie was fanatical about her. I remember one time I ran into him at the mall. We were just shooting the breeze when Ariel walked by holding hands with a guy. It wasn’t a big deal – just the usual girl-boy thing – but Charlie got this look like somebody had kicked him in the stomach. Then he said, ‘Sometimes I think it would be easier if I was dead… or if she was.’ ”
I felt a chill, but I tried to sound reassuring. “Pete, everything in high school is hyper-intense. People grow up.”
My son raked his hand through his hair. “I know, and I know Charlie sounds as if he really has it together. I listen to his show whenever I’m back in Regina. He seems like the coolest guy on the block, but…” Peter chopped the air with his hand. “But nothing,” he said. “I’m suffering from Hitchcock overload. You’re right. High school isn’t real life. And Charlie got his happy ending. He and Ariel were a couple. He would have done anything for her.”
In the lake’s dark waters, the moon’s reflection was a vortex. The final lines of the poem Charlie had recited on-air the day of Ariel’s death pressed upon my consciousness with such urgency that I spoke them aloud: “Dig them the deepest well,/Still it’s not deep enough/To drink the moon from.”
Peter frowned. “What’s that?”
“Just a line from a poem.”
Pete grinned ruefully. “If I’ve driven you to poetry, it’s time to change the subject. What do you think about going back to the house and cracking open a cool one?”
“I think it’s a terrific idea,” I said. “This is the old Queen’s birthday, and it should go out with a bang not a whimper.”
Our family logged an album-full of Kodak moments before we went our separate ways at the end of the holiday weekend, but Monday night, as I crawled into my own bed in the city, the image that haunted me was one that existed only in my imagination. It was of Charlie Dowhanuik, heartsick and angry, watching the girl he loved walk away with another boy. When I finally drifted off to sleep, I was still puzzling over two linked and unsettling questions: How much did Charlie know about Ariel’s pregnancy, and when did he know it?
I awakened the next morning to the sound of the phone ringing. When I picked up the receiver and heard Howard Dowhanuik’s basso profundo, I began to wonder about telepathy. As always, Howard wasted no time on niceties. “That priest who’s staying at Charlie’s house called. He says you’ve been checking up on us.”
“It’s a good thing I took the initiative,” I said. “Otherwise I never would have discovered that you and Charlie were in Toronto.”
“I gather from the frosty reception I’m getting now that you’re pissed off because I didn’t consult you.”
“I’m not pissed off,” I said. “Just confused. Howard, what are you and Charlie doing visiting Marnie?”
When he answered, the bravura was gone. “My son wanted his mother.”
“Is Marnie capable of…?”
He cut me off. “Marnie’s capable of nothing. She has to be fed. She wears a diaper. When she laughs, she shits herself.”
I had known him for twenty-seven years, and I thought I knew the full range of his anger: faked indignation at an opponent’s attack; icy fury when a jab hit home; withering disdain for those he believed had betrayed him. But the wrath in his voice as he described his wife’s condition came from a place I didn’t recognize – it was rage at the very nature of existence.
It sucked the sense out of me, and my response was as empty of meaning as one of Livia Brook’s New Age banalities. “But Charlie’s finding something he needs there.”
“Apparently,” Howard said, dryly. He had never been easy with talk of emotion. He coughed to cover the awkwardness. “Jo, I didn’t call to get into all that touchy-feely crap. I need you to do a little asking around at NationTV.”
“For what?”
“Charlie wants to know more about this guy the police have picked up in connection with Ariel’s murder.”
“He can probably get most of what I know from checking the Internet,” I said. “I’m sure the media here are working overtime to keep the curious informed.”
“There’s always stuff that isn’t made public. You know that.”
Remembering his pain about Marnie, I tried to keep the asperity out of my voice. “Howard, you must have a dozen cronies in the Crown Prosecutor’s Office who can give you inside information.”
“I don’t want them to know I’m asking.”
“This isn’t a good idea,” I said. “Nothing I find out about Kyle Morrissey is going to bring Charlie any comfort.”
“Damn it, Jo. Don’t give me a hard time. Just do it.” Then Howard added a word he didn’t often use with me. “Please.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll ask around. What’s your number there?”
“I’ll call you.”
The phone went dead. I stared at the blank display screen, aware that once again I’d been handed a task I could neither embrace or refuse. As I snapped on Willie’s leash, I remembered how, on dismal mornings after Rose, my old golden retriever, died, I had clung to the thought that, come spring, my new dog and I would amble around the lake, taking time to smell the flowers and whatever else of interest came our way.
I looked into Willie’s anxious eyes. “Time to hit the street, bud, but those flowers are going to have to wait.”
When I arrived at the Political Science office, I noticed two things: the vase beside Ariel’s picture was filled with daffodils, and Rosalie Norman was already at her desk. She was reading, but as soon as she heard my step she slapped her book shut. “Caught me,” she said.
“Something steamy?” I asked.
“I wish,” she said gloomily. She held up the book so I could see the cover. It was an ancient edition of The Joy of Cooking.