In Winter's Grip. Brenda Chapman

      “It would have helped her to understand. . .”

      “Understand what? Why I’m an emotional cripple?” Jonas’s voice rose. He glanced around to make sure nobody had been listening, and his shoulders relaxed when he saw nobody looking our way.

      I couldn’t explain the urgency I felt to disturb the family waters we’d avoided. I feared for what I’d seen in Jonas and in his interactions with Claire. “If Claire had known about the things he did, the things he made us do, she would certainly have given you strength. It would have helped your relationship.”

      “She married me as I was. I didn’t need to explain myself. I didn’t want her pity. The choices she’s made had nothing to do with how our father treated us.”

      “Tobias said that our father was a charming, well-liked man. His mask never slipped in public then?”

      “Only with his nearest and dearest. He fooled Claire too. She should have known. If she’d really loved me, she would have known.” Jonas’s voice broke and he quickly lifted his beer mug to take a long drink.

      I wanted Jonas to understand about our father. I pushed on. “I studied personality disorders as part of my studies in university. In fact, I read everything I could about them, trying to sort out why Dad was like he was. You know, so outwardly friendly but so deeply disturbed and controlling at home. The times he made us get down on our hands and knees to clean and reclean every square inch of that house, and still we couldn’t please him. The punishments and the groundings over nothing. Belittling us and making us feel so small then turning around and acting like we were the most special children on earth. We were always off-balance. That wasn’t a normal way to grow up, Jonas.”

      “Knowing it and getting over it are two different things. I thought by not talking about it to anyone, I’d be able to live with it,” Jonas said. “Did you ever tell Sam?”

      “A bit. Not all of it. I never told him how Dad would wake us up with the muzzle of his shotgun and line us all up in the bedroom against the wall with the gun trained on us, where we’d stand for hours until he fell asleep.”

      Jonas hung his head. “I don’t want to talk about this, Maja.”

      “I know. Mom wouldn’t talk about it either.”

      “He was seeing a woman in town these last few months.”

      “Oh? Is she married?”

      Jonas nodded. “The only kind he got involved with.”

      “Figures. It fed something in his ego. A narcissist doesn’t care about anyone else—we may as well be hollow shells for all they care about us. They also have fragile egos that need constant reinforcement. Having married women fall for him would have given him a feeling of power.”

      “You figure he was a narcissist?”

      “Yes, a person who has no empathy for others and needs constant adulation. They go into rages when they don’t get their own way. They’re also incredibly charming and manipulative.”

      “Dad’s photo could be next to the definition.”

      “They also can make their spouses feel like worthless shit. It explains a lot about our parents’ relationship.” I sipped my drink, trying to keep my hand steady. “Do you know the name of the latest woman he was seeing?”

      “I’d rather not say.”

      “I think it’s important that I know. I’m not going to go to the police.” I didn’t add “unless I found out it led to the murderer”. I looked across at the bar. The young Native man who so resembled Billy was putting on his coat and throwing money onto the bar. He had shoulder-length hair as poker-straight as mine and high cheekbones in a thin face. When he stood, he was taller than I’d thought and beanpole skinny. He headed towards the back of the bar, where an oversized finger on the wall pointed toward the washrooms.

      “Maybe we should head back,” Jonas said. He reached around and grabbed his coat. “Finish your drink, Maj.”

      I studied him over the rim of the glass as I swallowed the last of the Scotch. It burned my throat going down, but not unpleasantly. Jonas seemed to fold in on himself, his shoulders inverted and his hands tucked under the coat on his lap. When I lowered my empty glass, he stood and looked down at me. The expression in his eyes was sad.

      “Becky Holmes,” he said. “If you really want to know, our father was sleeping with my old girlfriend Becky Holmes— known to everyone in town as Mrs. Becky Wilders.”

SEVEN

      Your father lived a good life,” said Ralph Kreighbaum in a voice as solemn as...well...as a funeral director’s. At ten a.m. the next morning, I was sitting in his office facing him across a deep mahogany desk that glistened like a flat piece of ice. Every time I lifted my eyes to look at Ralph’s emaciated face, I was thrown by the gigantic portrait of his wife and two sons that hung across the better part of the wall behind him. His wife, Sharon, was as plump as Ralph was thin, and unfortunately, both sons had inherited her genes. I allowed Ralph to drone on about coffins and services for nearly fifteen minutes before holding up a hand.

      “I’m sorry,” he said, while frowning at my interruption. I knew he’d been building up to lay out the burial costs. His eyes narrowed but he kept his voice friendly. “Am I overwhelming you, Maja? I know this can all be very technical for someone in your state.”

      I let his comment pass, but it gave rise to the picture of a pregnant woman with the vapors. I kept my voice low. “No, it’s not that, Ralph.” Out of nowhere, I remembered sitting behind Ralph Kreighbaum in grade school and smelling Vicks Vapo Rub that his mother had rubbed into his chest every morning to ward off colds. Back then, Ralph had been a sickly kid who missed a lot of school. He didn’t look much healthier now. His skin was the colour of beach sand, a disturbing contrast to his shoe polish black hair. Maybe Sharon had taken over the role of chest-rubber. The image was not pretty, and I pushed it away.

      “Jonas and I don’t want a big funeral. We’re thinking no service at all, actually. My father was not a religious man, and he wouldn’t have wanted any fuss.” I almost choked on those words. Dad would have wanted everyone in town to come out and honour him. He would have opted for the bloody parade package if there’d been one. But I wasn’t about to let him go out like a hero.

      “Maja, everyone knew your father. He was such a well-liked, outgoing man. They’ll want a chance to say a proper goodbye.”

      “We were thinking of just having the family attend his cremation.”

      “Perhaps a small service in our very own chapel, and then the family can have a private cremation. That might be a nice compromise.”