“I’ve been so angry with her. I think I needed it to get through the months of probation, the thirty days in jail, but back there at her house, I couldn’t find it anymore. It isn’t her I’m angry with. She just fell in with new friends and something much bigger, the relentless march of the Beast, privatization, the ‘extinguishment of the rights of common.’” I shoot him a look and he smiles.

  ***

  The first bus of the day has just swooped to the curb outside. As Robin follows me down the aisle the artist’s portfolio knocks against the seats he is passing. Several people glance. A woman dressed for office work notices the red paint. By the time we settle into a back seat, she is twisted right around, looking us over. I turn my face away, watch the lights of Gottingen Street passing the window, trying to be invisible. There is a police car travelling beside us in the other lane.

  Robin is slumped down in the seat as far as his long frame will allow, the portfolio well tucked in between our knees and the back of the seat in front. “We should have walked,” he mutters in my ear.

  In a few minutes the bus approaches North Street. Below us the lights of the Angus L. MacDonald Bridge arch off into the sky. Someone has pulled the bell cord for the stop and I can’t see the police car anymore. “Let’s get off,” I whisper to him.

  Robin goes down the steps ahead of me and turns to help me, awkwardly juggling me, my cane and the portfolio, when the police car, or maybe another one, turns the corner. A tall wooden fence comes to an end right beside us. Robin pushes me toward it, around the post, behind the boards. The policeman has pulled up next to the curb and is coming around the cruiser. I flatten myself against the back of the fence as Robin turns to face him.

  The cop eyes the red-stained artist’s portfolio, the paint on Robin’s pants. “I think you’re coming with me.”

  He guides Robin toward the cruiser. I brace myself. He’ll come back for me in a moment. But he drives away. He didn’t see me.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  The sky is greying just enough to see white-capped water. A light drizzle has started up. I need to sit for a while before I can even think of walking home. Leaning heavily on my cane, I make my way down the hill. The shelter of the ramp to the bridge is a relief. I lean against the concrete, propping myself with my cane, catching my breath. I’m worried about Robin but grateful for the luck that kept me out of that cruiser’s back seat.

  “Lucy?” It’s Cindy, coming up behind me. My heart drops into my stomach when I see her. Low-cut black dress, dark stockings, heels. Her face is haggard under heavy makeup.

  I look into her eyes. Oversize pupils. “What are you doing here?”

  She drops her lids for a moment, then raises them again to face me. “What are you doing here?”

  ***

  “It was just too much, Lucy.” The sun has broken through and shines on us where we’ve settled ourselves on the log by the fire pit in the woods above the dockyard fence, a bit of warmth in it. “Those students, they treated me like some kind of star. I had to be gung-ho all the time. So what if I want to watch game shows in the middle of the afternoon instead of working on some petition or other?”

  “And Patty?”

  “It was too much pressure. We were fighting.” She slumps further back against the log. “She and her boys moved into a smaller place.”

  “Are you still living in the apartment?”

  “No. They took the boys again.” She looks down at her hands, clenching and unclenching in her lap. “I’m not what those students think I am, you know? She addresses the dockyard in general. “I’m not a saint, Superwoman, whatever. I can’t do it. I’m … what Children’s Aid thinks I am.”

  I reach over and untangle one of her nervous hands, hold it. “You are so much more than that, Cindy.” My eyes wander up to the bridge deck. “Are you coming to help scatter Judith’s ashes?”

  “Oh God, I miss her. Who’ll help me get my kids back now?”

  “Bob Cumberland?”

  She shrugs. “I guess.”

  “I miss her too. And there were some things I wanted to tell her.”

  Now Cindy’s light laughter rings among the trees again. “Oh, Lucy, all that time you talked to her in hospital, not knowing if she could hear you or not. Now that she’s free, isn’t she more likely to be able to hear you?”

  ***

  When Cindy leaves, she offers to help me up the hill and home, but there will be so much bustle there. I find myself studying the bridge as it curves up into the grey morning. We’ve got the wind Judith wanted all right, scudding the clouds through the November sky.

  “Judith, can you hear me?”

  I picture what will happen later, how it will look from here, the highest point of the sidewalk clinging to the side of the bridge, a wisp of ashes like smoke, dispersing into the wind.

  For months I’ve been watching her curl up and dry out, a mummy in white sheets, a remnant, a husk. Now, suddenly, I see her as she was, straight, slender and elegant, dressed for court, with her fine skin and shiny ponytail, large and attentive brown eyes, warm smile. I will have a chance to say something about her when we gather up there on the bridge, but what? There are no words that can begin to say what I feel about Judith.

  I collect myself for a moment, close my eyes. “We heard the village long before we got there, people wailing the names of the dead. The ruins of the houses were still smoking, survivors trickling in from the surrounding forest where they had run when the attack came. They were laying the bodies out along the edge of the graveyard. Some were covered with whatever people had — a partially burned blanket, a ragged coat — but most had nothing to hide them.

  I pause for breath, realize I am squeezing the life out of a handful of grass.

  “They are burned into my memory, Judith, carved on the inside of my eyelids, forever. Eyes torn out, hair ripped from scalps. Men, women, children. People I knew and loved. Emilia, just fourteen, hacked almost to pieces, her blood mingled with the dust like a giant scab. I only knew Marta’s body by her long, shiny braid, the way she loved to weave it full of bright, cotton strips, soaked in blood now and crawling with flies. And then I found Adela … Mía had already disappeared. Adela was pregnant too. She lay in the road. Judith, her intestines spilling out … .”

  My voice has squeaked to a halt. I guess if Judith can hear me at all, she can hear me tell the story in my mind, but no, I need to say this out loud. I breathe, swallow hard, until my voice comes back.

  “I tried to tell myself she was already dead when they cut her open, but I knew … . I ran into the bush and vomited until my stomach was empty and then vomited some more. My knees crumpled. I sat down, hard, on the ground, curled tight. I must have gone into shock; it was late afternoon before I remember anything again. A sound roused me, through the constant wailing, gravelly blows, scraping.

  “The graveyard was only a few yards away. A few surviving men and boys were passing a pick and two shovels back and forth, taking turns digging graves. The women and girls sat in circles around their loved ones, weeping. Nicolás was there, dirty and stunned, but he had gone to work as a priest, praying and anointing the bodies, tears streaming down his face.

  “I felt unbelievably useless. I was supposed to be the witness, the protection. I wandered out to where my class had their rabbit farm. The cages were knocked off of their legs and smashed into crooked remnants. Scattered all around them were the bodies of the rabbits, heads at odd angles, necks broken.

  “A group of children were there with a big iron pot they had found somewhere. They were skinning and gutting the dead rabbits, cutting them up. Other children were searching for pieces of wood that were not yet burned. I began hunting for firewood too. It was something I could do.

  “The villagers stayed in the graveyard until after dark. Everyone helped dig and fill in the graves. Nicolás said mass. Then the people came, drawn by the smell of rabbit stew, bringing what dishes and pots they could find, sitting in exhausted circles to eat.

  “The survivors decided to scatter for the night, hide in the hills surrounding the village. It was unlikely the paramilitaries would come back so soon, but there was no shelter left in the village, and no one wanted to stay there anyway. In small groups, people gathered up any clothing and blankets they could find and melted into the bush.

  “I found Nicolás in the graveyard, praying. His face was blank with pain and exhaustion. All I wanted was to comfort him. I put my hand on his arm. He slapped it away like he would a poisonous spider and looked at me. His eyes were cold. Filled with … disgust.”

  I am clutching my handful of grass so tightly my fingers are white. That look. It was the last expression I saw on Nicolás’s face. For the first time, doubt tugs at me. If he is alive, if I can find him, will he want to see me again? My breath catches. I am full of tears, but I want to finish telling Judith first. I’ve never told anyone before. I might not ever be able to do it again.

  “I ran into the jungle, huddled in a hollow for the rest of the night. When I crawled out, just before dawn, he was gone.”

  I pause, gulp down a sob that wants to escape, breathe in and out a couple of times.

  “The next day we left the broken ruins of San Marcos behind. Quiet now, everyone trailed down the path together, carrying children and stretchers, supporting those hobbling along from age or injury. We reached San Piedro after dark and were met by a crowd of concerned relatives, friends and other people who had heard. By evening, the remnants of San Marcos were absorbed into the homes of San Piedro.”

  I fold my arms against my knees and sink my head into them. I’ve been holding back the tears. I give up. They clog into sobs at first, big, tight sobs that hurt my chest. Later they run freely, pouring out of me, on and on. My sleeves are soaked, my eyes gritty by the time I lift my head again. The motion lets the mucus from my nose run right down my chin. I grab a handful of my sweater and press the thick wool to my face.

  I feel completely empty and so, so tired.

  Just enough left to tell her one more thing. “Later it came to me … where was Adela’s baby? The refugees here told me the government took them. If they survived, they sold them to wealthy Central Americans and adoptive parents all over the world.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  The next thing I’m aware of is feet crunching through the dead leaves. “Lucy! Hey, Lucy.” Next thing I know Robin’s face is looking into mine, full of concern. “Cindy left a message at the house saying you were here. I came as soon as I could.”

  “Robin, the police, what happened?”

  “I told them I did the graffiti, acting alone.” He laughs. “They didn’t believe me, of course, but I stuck to my story.”

  “The house. Will they search it?”

  “Already have. Fortunately, they took their time getting there after they let me go. The girls were like a whirlwind. It helped that the machines and fabric were all packed up for the Shelter Society inspection. They took everything to Cat’s grandmother’s house. They’ll have to work there for a while.” Robin slips his hand under my arm. “Come on, old girl. Let’s get you home and cleaned up for the ceremony on the bridge.”

  “Oh my God. What time is it?”

  “Lots of time.” He hauls me to my feet.

  ***

  Feeling much better for a bath, nap and change of clothes, I descend to the kitchen. Bara is leaning against the kitchen counter. I glance around the room.

  “She’s not here,” Bara’s voice is cold.

  Feeling heat in my face, I use the cane to ease myself into one of the chairs.

  “I just wish I understood your thing about Cat.”

  “Did she ever find out where she comes from?”

  “It’s not your business but yeah, she did. Her grandmother finally coughed up a letter her father wrote to her years ago. He was a sailor and he, like, got this girl pregnant, in Peru. When Cat’s grandmother found out, she made him go back for her. He paid her mother to give Cat up and brought her back here. Now she wants to go there and find her mother. But she wants to learn Spanish first.”

  “Oh.”

  “And Lucy? That house mother thing, it’s, like, Robin’s idea. Cat and I voted against it.”

  “’House mother thing’? What are you talking about?”

  “Robin didn’t tell you?”

  “Tell me what?”

  “While we were getting the flag stuff out of here, Robin went to see Bob. He’d thought of something while he was waiting around at the police station. He asked if Judith meant to give the house to the Shelter Society, like, specifically. Bob looked it up. The will just says, ‘for use as a shelter.’ Bob’s the executor. He says if we want to incorporate the house as a youth shelter, there’s no reason we can’t. He’ll help us. So Robin came home full of ideas, including he wants you to be official house mother.”

  I look up at her angry face and arms crossed tightly over her scant chest. “There’s not a problem, Bara. As I said, I’m going away for a while.”

  A pause, and then she releases her arms. “Where?”

  I straighten my back. “I’m going to accompany Mayan people in Mexican refugee camps back home to Guatemala.”

  “Oh. You mean, like, walk?”

  I follow her eyes. She looks at the cane where I hooked it on the edge of the table, then at me, and I see what she sees: an old, crippled woman. I close my eyes against the tears waiting just below the surface. It doesn’t help. They begin to trickle down my cheeks anyway.

  “Oh, Lucy, I’m sorry.” Bara hunkers down in front of me and takes my hand. She has that little frown between her brows. Now her eyes widen. “Oh … . When you met Cat, she was wearing that scarf. You asked if it was Guatemalan. That’s what this is about, isn’t it? That’s where you thought Cat came from.

  “Lucy, whatever happened to you there, it’s making you crazy. When I was keeping my sexual orientation a secret, I was such a mess inside. It’s so different now that I’m open. The struggle is out there, in the world. Inside myself, I’m, like, all in one piece. I think you need to talk about what happened.”

  I find I can’t speak.

  “It’s not just for you, you know. If we’re all going to live here, you and Cat and I, I need to hear it.”

  I look into her earnest, attentive eyes. Oh my God, another Judith.

  “No hurry,” she says. “Whenever you’re ready. And Lucy?”

  I’m searching my pockets for a tissue.

  “Will you teach us Spanish?”

  Robin has come through the front door with such uncharacteristic quiet, we see him at the kitchen door before we know he’s in the house. He takes in our odd position, as if Bara’s proposing to me. “You guys okay?’

  “Yeah.” Bara rises. “Robin, you didn’t even tell her about the will and everything.”

  “I was going to, after the ceremony.…”

  Bara brings me a box of tissues from the top of the refrigerator. I blow my nose and fill my pockets.

  “It’s time,” Robin says. “Are you ready?” He bounds upstairs two steps at a time, as always, and returns holding Judith’s cardboard urn clutched under one arm.

  Bara frowns at him. “Shouldn’t you be carrying those more respectfully?”

  He takes the urn in both hands, holds it out in ceremonial fashion. “Like this?”

  I smile at him. Then a thought. “And will you get something else for me from upstairs?”

  He sets the urn on the table. “Sure.”

  “In the drawer of my bedside table, leather cover, a Bible.”

  ***

  We walk toward the bridge with Robin on one side of me, clutching Judith’s ashes tightly to the front of his jacket, Bara on my other side, her arm hooked through mine, carrying my cane in her other hand. My free hand is deep in my pocket, wrapped around Nicolás’s Bible, looking for him, looking for comfort, but all I feel at the moment is old leather. Cat approaches from a side street. She gives me a wary glance. I smile at her. What was I thinking? She doesn’t look Mayan.

  At the corner of North and Gottingen, we meet a group of people coming up from the direction of St. Marks, the Community Clinic, the Friendship Centre, North Branch Library and Legal Aid. Familiar faces, Bob, John, Althea, Patty carrying her drum. I look for Cindy, but she’s not there. Reverend Peter sticks up a couple of inches above everyone else. He’s walking beside Althea, talking steadily. I catch Althea’s eye.

  We merge and move toward the bridge, falling in behind Robin. He matches my slow pace. The wind Judith wanted has risen since morning and changed direction, blowing North toward Needham Hill. Choppy grey clouds race past the green towers of the bridge, making that dizzying illusion that the bridge is falling over into the water. Below, the white-crested waves echo the sky.

  Robin stops at the very top of the curve, the spot I was looking at this morning from the woods below, and turns to brace his back against the outer railing. We bunch together as tightly as we can, although the narrow pedestrian walkway forces us to spread out to either side. Bara goes to join Cat and I latch onto the handrail, hating the way the pavement swings and trembles under my feet as the trucks and buses go by.

  Bob moves into the space beside Robin. He has to shout above the rumble of the traffic and the wind singing through the cables. “We have come here to remember Judith Maidstone, dear friend, colleague, teacher and mentor to many of us. She didn’t want a formal service, so we’ll just ask people to come forward …” He pauses and looks around. “Well, coming forward might be difficult. Just speak up from wherever you are and tell us a little about what Judith meant to you.”

  There is muttering as those closer to Bob repeat what he said to those farther down, then a pause. We listen to the wind and water, waiting. Finally, a young woman in a leather jacket and thick makeup shouts out: “Judith defended me on a communicating charge. She didn’t get me off, but I think the judge went a lot easier on me because of how hard she argued. I think some of those judges were actually scared of her.”