Chapter 2

Breanna Sutton sped north along highway sixty-two in North Hastings County. The cool, early spring morning was sunny and the road was deserted as she knew it would be. Northern Ontario wasn’t inviting to the urbanites until mid-May when the chance of snow was rare. Breanna looked at her watch. She was going to be able to cut an hour off the usual three and one half hour drive to William Hammond’s residence located along the north shore of Papineau Lake.

She hadn’t heard from the old author for almost six months, until he phoned her two days before and asked her to visit him. As usual she put aside the time and cancelled any appointments so she could make the long trip north.

Ten years previously Breanna had graduated with an English degree from university but had no idea how to proceed from there. She was twenty-three years old and was eager to use her skills out in the workforce. William Hammond, a cranky old man, worked for her father at the college. Her father had given William a job as a professor teaching a class about Shakespeare. Earlier, before Breanna was born, he had written two exceptional novels to critical acclaim but could not complete a third after a horrible case of writer’s block, so she was told. She believed there was something more to the story; her parents were always very vague when they answered her questions about him. After twenty-five years of teaching, William retired and finished his third novel about the time Breanna began looking for work. The old writer had made her a promise that he could help her obtain a job in a reputable publishing house in Toronto. Breanna smiled appreciatively, not believing that anything would come of it. Her parents sketchiness about him made her conclude that he wasn’t someone to rely on for anything.

A couple of weeks later Bill, as he wanted to be called, had her drive him to Toronto with his manuscript in hand and had struck a deal with the publishing house that he would publish with them but would deal with Breanna exclusively when they hired her. Eventually the publisher agreed, after reading the manuscript and assessing Breanna’s qualifications, and she found herself in a lucrative career.

Dealing with Bill had become a bit of an adventure over the years. He had finished three more books throughout the decade, never delivered them on time, had become reclusive shortly after the arrangement, rarely answered his phone and insisted that Breanna visit him in his cabin up north, where he had moved to, whenever he needed anything. His latest book had been due four months previous and she had yet to receive any indication that it was going to get done at all until the latest phone call. Bill had sounded gravellier than usual during the call. He had not stated that the manuscript was complete but he made it sound like it was close.

Breanna felt obligated to the old man. He had been kind to her and had even assigned some of his royalties for his novels to her as an added bonus. He told her he didn’t need much money and it would be of more use in her hands. The times she had gone to his cabin he had treated her with respect and offered her every comfort possible. This time he had insisted she arrive early as he had a lot he wanted to tell her. Breanna wasn’t sure what she needed to know from the old man but as always she followed his orders. There was no use in trying to obtain any information from him over the phone. He hated using the instrument and usually hung up before she even said good-bye.

Rocky cliffs towered up along the sides of the road at intervals where the construction crews had blasted through the Canadian Shield to keep an even flow to the highway. Gentle streams of water filtered down the jagged sides, the last of the spring runoff from the melting snow in the forested hills. Breanna slowed as she came around a curve in the highway keeping an eye out for Papineau Lake Road on the left. She had missed it on previous trips and had to take the second entrance into the area adding an extra five minutes to the trip. Somehow those five extra minutes bothered her to no end. It was five minutes of her life that was hers, extra minutes she didn’t want to devote to Bill.

The road seemed to appear out of nowhere and she had to make a sharp left turn to successfully navigate down it. Once safely off the highway she slowed down and switched her Jeep into four-wheel-drive. The road was paved in some stretches but dirt in others. She still had another ten to fifteen minute drive on the winding road around the lake to the other side and depending on the runoff some areas could be quite mucky. Her cell phone rang. She picked it up and looked at the name on the display. It was Jeremy.

They had been out the previous weekend, their fifth or sixth date; she had lost track. So far she deemed him to be rather charming, not one to try and get her into her pants on the first or second date. In many a woman’s eye he would be the perfect catch; good looking, but not overwhelmingly so; attentive, but not in an overpowering way; smart, but not too intimidating; everything just seemed to be perfect about him in the long-term relationship kind of way. But Breanna just wasn’t sure she was ready.

She had never been in any kind of long-term love affair with anybody. It wasn’t something that felt like a priority; to find someone to spend her life with. She was quite happy just concentrating on her career and men were more of an abstraction when her routine became too mundane for her. The one or two date guys were actually more of what she looked for every few months, though she would never admit to anyone that that was what she preferred. Jeremy was looking for more, that was obvious to her, and she wasn’t sure she wanted more. But it wasn’t hard for her to come up with a boat-load of negatives why her outlook on relationships wasn’t in her best interests and maybe wasn’t fulfilling her needs emotionally anymore.

The phone finally stopped ringing and went to voicemail. She placed it back in the cup-holder and continued down the narrow road. Ten minutes later she was approaching where the old log cabin was located.

The property had seriously degraded since the last time she had visited almost a year previously. She pulled the Jeep up next to the author’s old rusty wood paneled station wagon on the short stone and dirt path in front of a dilapidated two car barn-style garage with peeling white paint. One of the doors of the garage was hanging cockeyed from its hinges. Green pentagon shaped shingles were littered on the ground around the perimeter.

Breanna opened the door and stepped out of the vehicle acquiring a smudge of mud on the right side of her mid-length black spring leather coat. She wet the tips of the fingers on her right hand and hurriedly went about cleaning off the dirt before it dried on. Once she was satisfied she cleaned it up she stepped back and looked at the mud-spattered Jeep. Waves of mud started behind the front tires and formed an arch in the shape of a rainbow to the back. Breanna smiled. It had been quite awhile since she had taken the Jeep through muddy back roads. Perhaps she should have dressed for the occasion. She danced through the puddles and muddy patches on the dirt driveway as she circled around the Jeep and station wagon to survey the rest of the yard up to the house. Her knee-high black leather boots were going to need some TLC when she got home, she thought.

Scattered throughout the yard were broken tree branches, rusting garden tools and large mud-soaked patches of grass. It looked like a military obstacle course. Breanna felt the sun come out from behind some clouds and rest upon her left cheek. Her peripheral vision caught the sparkles from the rays shining off the lake through a clearing between the budding trees at the back of the yard. She remembered the first time she was directed to come to Bill’s property. It was during the summer, nine years in the past, and the setting was stunning. Everything was freshly painted, the grass was a thick deep green with gardens circling the cabin and a path led down through the trees to a dock bobbing gently in the lake. It was a complete contrast to what faced her now.

Breanna sifted her way through the unintended lawn ornaments to the side door of the cabin. She caught the patchy white torn screen door swinging in the gentle breeze and knocked on the solid wood inside door. A low moan seemed to emanate through from under what was left of the sweep of the door. She knocked again, louder this time.

“Ennnnnterrrr.” The low growl was more comprehensible.

The door creaked raucously as she opened it. The room was dark and it took Breanna’s eyes a moment to adjust. 

A faint putrid odour wafted past her and disappeared. To her left was an open closet with several old jackets and coats hanging from hangers on one side and a group of white shirts on the other side. Once her eyes adjusted the cabin was as she remembered it, just a little drearier and mustier. The furniture hadn’t changed any of its positions. It just looked older, like items you would see in a used goods store. Past the closet on the left was the door to the lone bedroom with the bathroom door beside it. The room she was entering now contained the kitchen in the far left-hand corner and the living room with a dark brown sofa and chair and a coffee table to the right. At her immediate right was Bill’s desk and typewriter. A fine layer of dust had settled upon it giving her a sense of dread that she wasn’t called to collect a manuscript. Bill sat behind a block pine dining table in between the kitchen and living room facing towards Breanna. He smiled and waved her forward. She moved the six paces to the table and stood before him.

Bill looked tired and very old. His hair was dishevelled and his clothing wrinkled, a slight sweaty or dirty laundry smell emanating up from him, even at the distance she was standing away.

“Hi Breanna,” he said dragging out her name with a croaking sound at the end. “How have you been?”

“I’m good Bill, but you’re not looking so hot. How are you feeling?” There was an ashen look to his face.

“Old,” he said, smiling weakly. “Very, very old,” he repeated staring off into his living room, his smile brightening slightly as his eyes rested upon the couch. He turned his head and looked back towards Breanna. “Sit down, please,” he said softly motioning to the wooden chair across from him.

“Would you like me to get you something first, maybe a drink? You sound like you need some water.” Breanna said as she went towards the kitchen, her heels echoing off the plank floor.

It had become natural for her to dote on the old man whenever she had come to visit him. He had always requested small favours from her, such as changing the bag in the vacuum cleaner or a burnt out light bulb. His arthritis limited him from doing a lot of little mundane things. Sometimes she thought the only reason he had summoned her was to get some of these little things done. But it had been quite awhile since she had been up even though it looked as if the place was in serious need of cleaning and refreshing. It looked as if he had lost interest in his environment.

She opened one of the cupboards and then another before finding a clean glass. After filling the glass with water she turned to see Bill absently staring off into the living room. She placed the water in front of him and choked imperceptibly at the strong odour that had engulfed him. She then went around and sat down in the chair on the opposite side of the table.

“Bill,” she called to him bringing him slowly out of his reverie. “I brought you some water,” she said pointing to the glass in front of him. He moved in slow-motion, looking towards the object, recognition washing over his face before picking it up to take a short sip. “Is that the manuscript Bill?” Breanna raised her voice trying to get him to liven up. She was hoping that the papers beside him meant the trip up was worth the bother and she would have something to show for it.

Bill put his hand on the two-inch stack of papers resting on the table to his left.

“Yes,” he said slowly. A glimmer of comprehension finally seemed to form in his eyes. “Yes,” he said again, with more conviction looking up to her. “How is your father doing Breanna?” Bill asked in a normal conversational tone now. “I haven’t seen him in, oh must be at least two years now.”

“Dad died of cancer two years ago Bill. You were at the funeral.”

“Oh right, right. Sorry.” Bill looked away, a look of concentration on his face before turning back to look at her again. “You’re looking good Breanna. Stand up, let me see how you’ve grown,” Bill said, excitement building in his voice.

Breanna sat motionless studying him, feeling a tinge of anger course through her for being so willing to drop everything for this foolish old man. She quickly let it subside and pushed out the chair and stood so he could see her. Her coat hung open now, her long brown hair draping the shoulders. She counted to ten, smiled slightly and then sat back down.

“You’re beautiful, just like…, just like I remember.” He studied her soft features and smiled warmly. “I’ve missed seeing you.”

“Bill, why did you call for me?” Breanna kept her tone even. Bill was watching her and smiling, his hand absently tapping the manuscript. “Is the manuscript ready?”

“Do you have a man in your life yet Breanna?”

Breanna thought about Jeremy. “No Bill, I don’t.” He asked her that same question every time she saw him. She really didn’t believe it was any of his business and answered as such each and every time, though she did feel like she had just betrayed Jeremy a small bit with her response this time. “Is the manuscript ready Bill?” she asked with more impact.

“Not exactly,” he returned, looking back down at it.

“Can I see it?”

“No first we have to talk. Do you need something to drink or eat?”

“No thanks. I stopped in Bancroft on the way up here. So what is it we need to discuss?”

Bill cleared his throat. “Well, you know my first two novels?” Bill looked toward Breanna as a look of disbelief washed over her face. “Yes, yes, of course you do. But you don’t really know the whole story surrounding them.”

“Go on,” Breanna said with a slight bit of impatience creeping into her voice.

“You see each one of my novels, although they are a work of fiction, all have some part of my actual life integrated within them. My first novel Senseless was based on my mother’s chronic depression that led to my father’s suicide. Solace was based on myself overcoming my sorrow to realize my success and happiness, albeit loneliness. And my third novel was taken from my time teaching at college. Of course the last three have some elements of my experiences as well, but the stories are pretty much all fiction. But this novel,” he patted the stack of papers again, “this is the chapter of my life that has been the most difficult to write.”

“Can I take a look at it?” Breanna asked reaching out her hand.

Bill folded his arms in front of him and grimaced as he leaned forward. “Breanna, I’ve worked on this novel for ten years but it’s not in me to finish it.” Breanna’s eyes widened. “My hands can’t work the typewriter anymore. My health isn’t good and it drains me emotionally. But it must be finished or I’ll never rest. I need you to listen to the story. I beg of you, please, let me tell you the story so you know it,” he pleaded, his voice quivering slightly.

“You want me to listen to the story?” she said trying not to clench her teeth as she spoke.

“Yes, because I can’t write it and I thought,” he hesitated, “since you have some good writing skills and a vested interest in it, maybe you could finish it for me if you knew the whole story,” Bill smiled affectionately.

Breanna felt a shot of rage sizzle through her. She tried to subdue it before responding. “I have my own projects Bill. I have a life and a job. I don’t have the time to write stories for you. We’ve already been given the advance. They’re expecting a novel. They knew it wouldn’t be on time, but Bill, this I’m sure won’t be acceptable.”

“Just sit and listen to my story. All my notes are here. We can put both our names on it. Please.” Bill reached across for Breanna’s hand. His eyes filled with tears. She put out her hand and touched his. It was dry and frail feeling. She pulled her hand away and stared hard at him.

“For Christ’s sake Bill,” she spit out, trying not to unleash her anger, “you want me to write this for you?”

The old man lowered his head and sighed. “Please. It’s the last one,” he mumbled barely audible.

Breanna sat silent for a minute. She thought about her career and the debt she owed this man. “I don’t know if I can do this, write a novel. Sure, I’ve written some short stories and poems, but I haven’t even thought of tackling a novel. And I’ve been so busy with my job.”

“You’ll have everything you need right here Breanna. You won’t have to research anything, the plot is laid out. All I need you to do is to listen to the whole story, from beginning to end, so you can be vested emotionally in what you are writing.”

Breanna sat and stewed, looking at her watch and then staring hard at the old man, wishing she didn’t feel so obligated to him. “How long will it take Bill?” she sighed.

“Probably a good part of the day,” he said looking up.

Breanna sighed, “OK Bill. Let’s get started then.”

He turned and stared towards the living room, a smile spreading across his face. Breanna followed his gaze. A picture of his wife Joanie hung over the brown cloth sofa on the far wall. She looked back towards the old man and saw he was lost in reverie again. She got up and went to the cupboard for a glass of water. When she returned he was still lost in another time. Breanna stared at the portrait of his wife.

“Is this story about your wife Bill?”

“Yes,” he answered, still staring towards it. “She was a very beautiful woman; we really didn’t have enough time together.” He turned and looked down at his hands resting on the table, picking at the chapping skin on the left hand with his right. Breanna felt a moment of repulsion. “I didn’t do what I should have done to keep her happy. I failed her.”

“Don’t do that Bill,” Breanna said, lightly tapping his hands. “You’ll get an infection.”

                 He looked up at her. “She was so beautiful Breanna. You would have liked her.” A tear ran from his eye, streaming around prominent wrinkles that creased his cheek and dripped into his unkempt beard.

                 “I’m sure I would have Bill,” Breanna said softly. “Tell me about her story.”