Wildwood. Elinor Florence
that. I rose to my feet.
“Thank you, Mr. Jones. I’ll drive out to the farm and take a look for myself. I’ll give you my answer tomorrow.”
August
“It’s a scorcher, eh?” commented Edna, the plump, red-faced woman behind the hotel desk. I chuckled politely before I realized that she wasn’t joking. Edna patted her damp forehead with a tissue. “It’s twenty-three above. That’s the hottest day this year so far.”
I converted Celsius to Fahrenheit in my head — twice, to make sure I wasn’t mistaken. Seventy-three degrees Fahrenheit did not a hot day make, but we were in the far north now. As we entered the hotel restaurant, I saw several people in shorts and tank tops. Bridget and I were wearing jeans and jackets.
We found a booth in the corner and Bridget hid under the fake wood-grained tabletop while I placed our order for bacon and eggs. After the server left, I passed Bridget an antiseptic wipe and we surreptitiously cleaned our cutlery under the table.
I tried not to look too closely at the upholstery on the banquette, which had a pattern designed to hide the dirt, a swirling print like purple and brown storm clouds. The carpeted floor was dark brown, marked with heavy black streaks resembling tar, probably from the oil patch workers. Four young men at the next table wore steel-toed boots and orange reflective vests.
This was oil country. Northern Alberta had gigantic reserves of crude oil — the third largest in the world after Saudi Arabia and Venezuela. The “oil sands,” as they were called, produced billions of dollars in revenue and employed tens of thousands of people.
The room seemed unnaturally hushed. Breakfast at an American restaurant was a noisy affair, but here everyone was speaking in low voices, even the oil workers. Two older men in plaid shirts and suspenders quietly discussed the advantages of a forty-foot versus a thirty-foot combine header as if they were spies exchanging secrets. They might as well have been, since I had no idea what they were talking about.
As usual, Bridget refused to eat. I cut her toast into narrow strips and coaxed her to dip them into the golden egg yolks. She managed to get a few bites down while I wondered again how many calories a child her age needed to survive. She balked at drinking her orange juice because she said it tasted funny. The food was delicious and the coffee excellent, but the bill came to an astonishing $17. My dwindling funds wouldn’t last long at this rate.
I sang “You Are My Sunshine” while we drove away from town, along the paved, four-lane Mackenzie Highway that ran north and south through the forest like twin silver ribbons. Bridget refused to sing along. She sat in the corner of the seat, sulking.
The sparse traffic consisted mostly of trucks: tankers, pickups, and four-by-fours with equipment stacked in the back, all heading to the northern oil and gas fields. I was greatly encouraged by the quality of the highway. We should be able to drive eighty-eight miles in eighty-eight minutes.
As we sailed along, I marvelled at the vastness of this forest that lined the highway on both sides and extended to the horizon. At intervals the bush was broken by fields of waving grain, pastures of lush grass, and ponds of shimmering sapphire. Rocking horse oil wells dotted the fields, their red metal heads dipping and rising. Occasionally we passed a farmstead with a tidy wood-framed house and rows of tall silver cylinders that I assumed were for grain storage.
After we had driven sixty miles straight north, the pleasant woman’s voice from the global positioning system told us to turn right, toward the east. This road was much narrower, and the pavement was dotted with potholes. I slowed the rented Toyota Corolla, feeling a little apprehensive. Every few hundred yards we crossed a small bridge. The landscape was criss-crossed by creeks and lined with low shrubs and clumps of cattails that emerged from the forest and wound through the yellow fields like bushy green snakes. “Bridget, look at all the water!” She refused to raise her eyes.
At each one-mile point we intersected another crossroad. I finally coaxed Bridget out of her mood by asking her to count them. When she reached twenty, the voice told us to turn left, or north, onto a gravel road.
I had never driven on gravel, so I slowed the car again with a sense of misgiving. We were still eight miles from our destination. A cloud of dust rose behind the car. After the first couple of miles, all signs of human habitation ceased, and the forest walls closed in on both sides. We were driving through a tunnel of trees.
I gripped the steering wheel tightly. This must be how Hansel and Gretel felt, following the trail of bread crumbs through the dark woods. I was relieved to see the odd patch of pasture, where cattle grazed. The familiar sight of a cow was comforting.
The day was getting warmer and to save gasoline I rolled down the windows and turned off the air conditioning. The fresh scent of pine resin flowed through the open windows. There was an intermittent thwacking sound as insects hit the hood and the windshield, leaving disgusting green smears on the glass.
Suddenly Bridget let out a piercing scream. I slammed on the brakes and the car fishtailed on the gravel before coming to a stop. “What is it? What’s the matter?”
Still shrieking, Bridget pointed to a grasshopper that had flown in through the window and was clinging to her sleeve.
“It’s just a silly old bug! Here, let me grab it.” I took a paper napkin off the floor and gingerly picked up the grasshopper, then flung it out the window. I was trying to be brave for her sake, but the insect was hideous, chartreuse in colour and slightly sticky.
I pressed the button to raise the electric windows and started off again, but Bridget’s mood had changed. She continued to look around fearfully, clutching Johnny Wrinkle to her chest.
“Mama, the sun is shining right in my eyes!”
“Well, just shut them for a few minutes. We’re almost there.”
Bridget closed her eyes, scrunching up her face comically. “That doesn’t work! It just turns everything dark orange!”
Before I could answer, the dashboard voice spoke again. “You have reached your destination.” I glanced around but I couldn’t see anything that looked like a farmyard. A rutted trail, thick with grass and weeds, cut through a field of grain on our left and disappeared over a slight rise.
Carefully, I eased the car onto the trail and heard a series of metallic-sounding thumps as the tall weeds struck the undercarriage. I was afraid the car would bottom out or, worse yet, hit a hidden rock. I braked to a halt.
“Come on, Bridget, we’ll have to walk.”
“No! Mama, there’s bugs out there!”
“They won’t hurt you, I promise. Let’s go and find our new house.”
I went around to the passenger door and opened it. Bridget’s little hands clung to the sides of the doorway like the suction-cupped arms of a starfish. “I don’t want to go!”
“You can ride piggyback. The bugs can’t get you up there!”
“No, no, no, no!”
“Bridget, you have to come with me or else stay in the car by yourself.”
Dreading a tantrum, I heard my voice assume its usual wheedling tone. I felt the familiar surge of anxiety and reluctance to upset her. Thankfully she allowed herself to be hoisted onto my back, and we set off. She must have gained weight, I thought as I staggered along the grassy ruts.
“Sweetie, don’t choke me, please.”
Even with Bridget squeezing my throat and shrieking every time a grasshopper whirred out of the grass, I admired the overarching sky. It was a deeper