trips. Louise squints at them, trying to find a likeness to the petite blonde woman in the photos sheâs seen of Jakeâs first wife, but it must have been Brenda herself who was the snapper of pictures.
Louise glances at the empty street periodically, stands up twice to walk down into the front garden and look around the side of the house, but thereâs no sign of Danny. Almost to the bottom of the box, and about to re-pack the mementoes as carefully as she found them, she pulls out a yellowed scrapbook. The first five pages bristle with newspaper clippings, the rest of the book is empty. A series of articles from the Edmonton Sun , starting February 26, 1984, ending March 5, 1984. A chronicle of a crime. âThe Bobby Cook Story: Part One. Did we hang the wrong man?â
She stares at the photo of a young, bare-chested man against a brick wall. Unshaven, muscular, arms held away from his body, he looks slightly brutish. âBobby Cook: Was he innocent?â the caption asks.
âIt was a quiet Sunday in June, 1959 when Mounties discovered seven mutilated, blood-spattered, decomposing bodies in a grease pit in the Cook home at Stettler. The victims were identified as Bobbyâs father, Ray Cook, 53, his step-mother, Daisy, 37, and Bobbyâs five step-brothers and sisters, aged between three and nine.â
Louise lets the scrapbook slide from her lap. What kind of morbid interest possessed Brenda to keep these clippings? People she knew? But 1959? The articles were written twenty-five years after the crime, and must have been in Brendaâs keeping, then in Jakeâs for the next ten years. She picks the book up again, and flips through the pages. The last article: âThe Bobby Cook Story 25 Years Later. Some Doubts Remain.â A photo of a gravestone. Seven names. Ever Remembered, Ever Loved.
She will ask Jake about this. Forget taping the box shut and pretending she didnât snoop. An innocent enough mistake to open a box accidentallyâsheâll admit that she was driven by curiosity, apologize for trespassing, ask him what this is about.
The breeze is picking up now, gusts rattling the leaves of the honeysuckle against the screen. The old Fahrenheit thermometer tacked to the doorframe reads eighty-five degrees. Jake tried to teach her the formula for converting back
to Celsius, but the pregnancy has reduced her brain to a bowl of mush. âForget it,â she finally says. âItâs just bloody hot.â
Coal-coloured clouds are piling up in the west, and there is the scent of ozone on the wind. She pushes the boxes against the wall. She needs to put her feet up againâshould have done so an hour ago. These past two days, even elevating hasnât reduced the swelling in her ankles. It feels like there are donut-shaped cushions straining under the tight skin.
Louise wanders in to the deep shade of the living room. She settles into Jakeâs recliner, facing the window. Itâs been several hours since she felt the baby move. The gigantic maternity t-shirt is limp from the heat. She slides her hands underneath and rests them on her belly, fingertips gently tapping. Usually, this caress wakes the babe, but this time there is no answering flutter.
When she closes her eyes, she senses a flicker of movement on the other side of the room. Opens them, and the curtains are swaying. On the second window, just a foot away, the old lace panels hang slack.
Breathe, she whispers to herself. Get up slowly. But even so, the room spins around her, and she bends over, grabs the edge of the table, takes a deep breath. Another breath, and the whirling stops.
Another three weeks in this swollen state. Sheâs scheduled for induced labour if the baby hasnât arrived by then. Or a C-section at any time, if her blood pressure spikes again. She plods to the other side of the room. When she leans across the sewing machine to press her face to the screen, to look out at
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