An Air That Kills

Thirteen

While the two Galloway boys were waiting for the mailman in Toronto, little Aggie Schantz was on her way to the small country school she attended near Meaford. In the winter when Aggie had to follow the road because snowdrifts made exploring foolhardy, if not impossible, she took the quick and direct route. But it was spring now, and the only snow left lay in crevices between rocks, in the hollows of tree trunks along the snow fences sagging under the weight of winter.

Aggie was a quiet child of eleven. She behaved decorously at school and obediently at home, and no one ever suspected what an adventurous spirit lurked behind her brown braids and black bonnet, or what itchy feet were buckled inside her canvas galoshes. Aggie came from a family of Mennonites whose outside contacts were limited and whose meager amount of traveling, to and from church or from one farmhouse to another, was done by horse and buggy. Aggie dreamed of a larger world. Sometimes when she was looking at a map in geography class, she grew quite dizzy thinking of all the hundreds, the thousands, of places she wanted to visit. They were all places of extremes — the highest mountain, the largest ocean, the biggest city, the oldest country, the hottest desert, the highest waterfall, the fastest rapids — Aggie intended to see each and every one of them.

While her dreams were wild, her plans for escape showed both common sense and resourcefulness. As a farm child she knew enough about horses to realize that they were a slow and unsatisfactory means of transportation. Horses had to be fed and watered and sheltered and rested and groomed. Trains and buses were equally impossible since she had no money. And so Aggie’s eyes turned to the lake, to the fleets of fishing boats and the passing freighters that were so large one small stowaway wouldn’t be noticed. She couldn’t stay away from the lake, she scanned it constantly as if she were shipwrecked on an island, waiting, cold and hungry, for rescue.

As soon as the spring sun melted the snow from the cliffs above the lake, Aggie began taking an indirect route to school. Carrying her books and her lunch in a gray canvas bag, she climbed up to the top of the cliff and then down to the beach by a special steep path used only by agile children and venturesome dogs. The beach along here was very narrow, six feet at its widest, and strewn with boulders and rocks of all sizes. To keep from getting wet she was forced to leap from one boulder to another, but this proved tiring work and she sat down for a minute to rest, tucking her legs modestly under her long full cotton skirt. Her time sense told her she was going to be late for school, and her conscience warned her she’d better do something about it.

“There’ll be hell to pay,” Aggie said aloud, and the sound of the forbidden word was as intoxicating as a strange tropical drink. “Maybe I’ll go there. It’s the hottest place.”

Half-shocked, half-delighted with her own wit and daring, she began to giggle self-consciously, turning her face sideways so that it was almost hidden by the folds of her black bonnet. And it was then, out of the corner of her right eye, that she spotted the red and black plaid cap wedged between two rocks.

She often found things on the beach, especially in the summertime, sometimes a piece from an old tire, a soaked and dilapidated shoe, a rusty tin can, or an empty bottle, but these were all worthless things, discarded by the owners and battered by the waves. The cap was dry, and no one would ever have discarded it because it was brand-new. It had a plastic visor at the front and a scarlet pompon on the crown? and to Aggie, who had never owned anything bright-colored in her life, it was a thing of beauty. She pushed back her bonnet, letting it hang from her neck by its strings, and put the plaid cap on her head. It came down grotesquely over her ears and eyes, but Aggie did not know that this wasn’t correct. Nor did she, like most eleven-year-old girls, long for a mirror to see how she looked. Mirrors were banned in the house she lived in, and the only glimpses of herself she ever caught were chance and fleeting reflections in a sunny window or in the pond behind the barn on a still day. Therefore she didn’t realize that she looked foolish; she knew only that the cap was beautiful, and so it must look beautiful on anyone, anywhere.

But because it was beautiful, it was, by the same token, forbidden. She looked around to check her privacy, and finding it complete, she took off the cap, compressed it as carefully as possible and tucked it inside her waist blouse. Under her bulky clothes it was barely noticeable, and it might have escaped detection entirely if Aggie herself had not been so extremely conscious of its presence, partly from pride in its possession and partly from discomfort over its location.

By the time she reached the small brick schoolhouse the final bell was ringing and the pupils were already lined up to go inside. Red-faced and panting, holding her arms across her chest, Aggie slipped into her place in line, and began marching into the smaller of the two classrooms.

Here Miss Barabou taught, or tried to teach, the four upper grades. They were a mixed group, not only in age and ability, but in background and religion. Miss Barabou herself was a Presbyterian of French Canadian ancestry, and among her pupils she counted Anglicans, Baptists, Mennonites, Christian Scientists, Methodists, and even two Doukhobor children from Alberta. Like many teachers, Miss Barabou chose her favorites principally on the basis of their obedience. The Doukhobor children were wild and unruly, often disrupting the class or flouting authority, and with them Miss Barabou was sharp and critical and sarcastic. On the other hand the Mennonite children were quite docile, they never questioned adult authority or criticized adult behavior or expected adult privileges. While Miss Barabou disparaged the Mennonite religion, she was often grateful for its results, and Aggie was her special pet. Aggie’s position was not entirely enviable, however, for Miss Barabou expected a great deal from her special pets and easily became exasperated when she didn’t get it.

After the class had bowed their heads and mumbled the Lord’s Prayer in unison, they sat down at their double desks and began removing their books from their school bags.

Miss Barabou took her place at the front of the class. She was large and majestic, and though she seldom punished her pupils, most of them stood in awe of her.

“Spring is here,” Miss Barabou announced with satisfaction, as if she’d had a personal part in its arrival. “Did anyone see a robin on the way to school?”

Hands were raised and seven robins counted. An American eagle was offered by Boris, the Doukhobor boy, but was turned down on grounds of improbability.

“We do not have American eagles in this part of the country, Boris.”

“But I saw one.”

“Indeed. Describe it,”

Boris described the eagle with such complete accuracy that Miss Barabou was visibly shaken.

But she was also determined. “We do not have American eagles in this section of the country. Ever. Now will someone please mark our seven robins on the bird chart? You, Agatha?”

Aggie sat motionless and mute.

“Agatha, I am addressing you. Do you know where we keep the bird chart?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Will you kindly mark our seven robins?”

“I can’t.”

“Indeed, and why not?”

“I can’t find my crayons.”

“Well, stop squirming like that and take another look.”

“I can’t.”

“Which do you mean, you can’t stop squirming or you can’t take another look?”

Aggie didn’t answer. Her face was burning and her tongue felt fuzzy and dry.

“If you have an itch, Agatha, kindly go into the cloakroom and relieve it,” Miss Barabou said in exasperation, thinking, The awful way they dress their children, it’s no wonder they itch. I’ll bet she’s got on six layers of clothing at least. She added, more gently, “Agatha, is anything the matter?”

“No, ma’am.”

It was at this point that Miss Barabou noticed Aggie’s empty desk. “Where are your books, Agatha?”

“I — don’t know.”

“You lost your school bag, is that it?”

“I don’t know.”

The rest of the class had begun to titter and whisper behind their hands. Miss Barabou ordered them brusquely to start work on their book reports, and went down the aisle to Aggie’s desk, her heavy step warning the class to behave. She was positive now that something was the matter with Aggie; the child’s face was such an odd color and she was trembling. Maybe she’s coming down with something, Miss Barabou thought. That’s all I need right now is an epidemic. Oh well, if it gets bad enough they may close the school and I’ll have a holiday.

“Do you feel ill, Agatha?” Miss Barabou asked, somewhat heartened at the idea of a holiday. “Stick out your tongue.”

Aggie stuck out her tongue and Miss Barabou studied it with a professional air. “I can’t see anything wrong. Does your head hurt?”

“I guess so.”

“Let’s see, you had measles and chicken pox last year. No mumps yet?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Well, think of a lemon.”

“A what?”

“Pretend you’re eating a lemon. Or a pickle. Can you pretend that?”

“I guess so.”

“All right now, does your throat feel queer on both sides just under your chin?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Perhaps you’re not pretending hard enough. Keep picturing that pickle, it’s very, very sour and you’re eating it. Now do you feel anything?”

“No, ma’am.”

Sylvia Kramer raised her hand to announce that she had a real dill pickle in her lunch box and would gladly offer it for the sake of research. Miss Barabou replied that that wouldn’t be necessary, and led Aggie into the cloakroom for further and more private diagnosis.

“Has any of your brothers or sisters been ill, Agatha?”

“Billy has the toothache.”

“That’s not catching. Why are you squirming and clutching your chest like that?”

Aggie shook her head.

“Do you have a pain there?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Honestly, the way they dress you children, it’s a crime. Are you still wearing your long underwear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’ve a good notion to write a note to your parents. It’s hard enough teaching without having to teach itchy children. For all I know, you have lice.”

Tears welled in Aggie’s eyes. She blinked them away, hard. “Agatha,” Miss Barabou said quite gently, “now tell me truthfully, what is the matter?”

“I lost my school bag.”

“Perhaps you forgot and left it at home.”

“No. I lost it. On the beach.”

“When were you on the beach?”

“This morning on my way to school.”

“The beach isn’t on your way to school. Besides, all you children have specific instructions not to go near the beach by yourselves. A lonely spot like that, you can’t tell what will happen.” Miss Barabou paused, significantly. “Did anything happen?”

Aggie merely looked up at her in helpless bewilderment, and Miss Barabou realized that the child didn’t understand. She tried to explain patiently that little girls didn’t go to lonely beaches by themselves because there were some bad men in the world who might do nasty things to them. “Did you see any men down there?”

“No.”

“I hate to be suspicious, Agatha, or to nag. But I have the distinct impression that you’re not telling me the whole truth.”

Though Miss Barabou’s voice was kindly, her eyes burned with such intensity that Aggie had the feeling they were looking right through her waist blouse at the red and black plaid cap.

“What occurred down at the beach, Agatha?”

“Nothing!”

“You know how important the truth is. What happens at home when you don’t tell the truth?”

“I get the strap.”

“As you very well know, I don’t have a strap, and wouldn’t use it if I had. Now you’re not going to cry, are you?”

Aggie was, indeed. Tears spilled out of her eyes and she had to wipe them away with her sleeve. It was when Aggie raised her arm that Miss Barabou noticed the extra bulk under her clothes.

“What on earth have you got stuffed in the front of your blouse? So that’s what you’ve been fidgeting about. You’ve got something hidden in there. What is it, Agatha?”

Aggie shook her head, helplessly.

“You won’t be punished if you tell the truth. That’s a promise. Now stop crying and tell me — no, better still, show me what it is.”

“It’s — nothing. I found it.”

“Nobody finds a nothing,” Miss Barabou said dryly. “It’s impossible factually, as well as grammatically. What did you find?”

“A cap. An old cap somebody left on the beach that didn’t want it any more.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so before? All this fuss and fume about an old cap. Honestly, I sometimes wonder what kind of home life some of you children have that makes you afraid to speak up. Now remove the cap, and we’ll leave it here on the shelf in the cloakroom, and you can take it home with you after school.”

Aggie turned her back, removed the plaid cap from under her waist blouse and handed it to Miss Barabou.

Miss Barabou appeared surprised. “‘What an odd-looking thing. I’ve never seen one like it. Where did you find it, Agatha?”

“Between two rocks, just sitting there. I guess somebody just threw that old cap away.”

“It isn’t old. It’s hardly been worn at all.”

“It looks old to me.”

But Miss Barabou seemed to have lost interest in Aggie. She was examining the inside of the cap, and when she spoke again it was more to herself than to Aggie. “There’s a label. Abercrombie & Fitch, New York City. Funny. There aren’t many Americans around at this time of year. The thing’s new, no doubt about it. Expensive, too. Abercrombie & Fitch, I think they sell sporting goods. I wonder what kind of sport this would be worn for. Curling, perhaps, except that I’ve never seen a curling cap with a sun visor. Or golf. But the golf courses won’t be open for ages. I’m not even sure if it’s a man’s cap or a woman’s.”

“Miss Barabou...”

“You may go back to your desk, Agatha.”

“Is it my cap if I found it?”

“I can’t promise you that,” Miss Barabou said thoughtfully. “I better consult with Miss Wayley.”

Miss Barabou escorted Aggie back into the classroom, pronounced her free of disease, assured the pupils they could associate with her without fear and warned them not to start getting symptoms out of the blue. Then, leaving the class in charge of one of the seniors, she made a beeline to Miss Wayley’s room next door.

Social visiting between the two teachers during school hours was forbidden by the school inspector. But the inspector was miles away and not due for another month.

Miss Wayley, upon being apprised of the situation, put her entire class, including those who hadn’t yet learned to write, to work on a composition entitled “How I Will Spend My Summer Vacation.” Then she and Miss Barabou retired to the tiny room at the rear of the school where they ate their lunch and made coffee during recesses and conducted their private business in general. The room was cold and cramped and ugly, but it had two distinct advantages: a lock on the door which had so far resisted even the expert picking of Boris, and a telephone installed the past winter after a bad storm left the school marooned for nearly twenty-four hours.

Miss Wayley lit a cigarette, took three quick, furtive puffs, and butted it before any of the smoke could seep under the door and cause alarm or suspicion among the students. She saved the butt in an empty Band-Aid box inside the first aid kit.

“I think,” Miss Barabou said, “we should phone somebody.”

But Miss Wayley was busy trying on the cap in front of the yellowed, broken mirror hanging on the wall, “Don’t I look sporty, though? Say, this is kind of cute. I wouldn’t mind having one myself. Makes me feels years younger.”

“Be serious.”

“I am.”

“It looks like a man’s cap to me. Have you seen any strange men around town lately?”

“If I had,” Miss Wayley said cheerfully, “I’d be on leave of absence tracking him down, believe you me.”

“Be serious.”

“I can’t. I feel sporty. Here, you try it on, Marie.”

“I wouldn’t dream of...”

“Go on. See how it looks. Just for fun.”

Miss Barabou took a quick glance at the door to make sure it was locked, then she, too, tried on the plaid cap. For one instant, in the cracked mirror, she did indeed look sporty, but the instant was overwhelmed by years of common sense. “It’s ridiculous. I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing such a thing.”

“Well, I would. I can just picture myself whizzing along in some snazzy convertible...”

“Why a convertible?”

“Because that’s what the cap’s for, riding in a convertible with the top down. I’ve seen them in the movies.”

“That’s how it happened, then.”

“What did?”

“Someone was riding along the cliff road in a convertible and his cap blew off and landed on the beach where Agatha found it.”

“It couldn’t blow off, easily, anyway. That’s what the elastic band at the back is for, to keep it tight-fitting so the wind won’t blow it off.”

“How odd,” Miss Barabou said, and for the first time she appeared disturbed by the possibilities. “I know it sounds silly, but — well, you don’t suppose there’s been a crime committed?”

“No such luck.”

“Please be serious.”

“I am. I said no such luck and I mean it. Nothing ever happens around here.”

“There’s always a first time.”

The noise from the two unattended classes was increasing by the minute — thuds, screams, laughter, whistling — but neither of the two teachers paid any attention. Din was a part of their lives and a few decibels one way or another didn’t matter.

“I’d feel like a fool,” Miss Barabou said, “if I called in the police and it turned out to be absolutely nothing.”

“Call anyway.” Miss Wayley selected one of the dozen or so cigarette butts she kept stored in the first aid kit, and lit it with a reckless air. “We might as well whip up a little excitement while the whipping’s good. Here, help yourself to a butt.”

“No thanks. It wouldn’t be sanitary.”

“Sorry I can’t offer you a fresh one. Gee, it’d be wonderful to buy cigarettes cheap the way they do in the States.”

“I’m not sure whom to call.”

“The local constabulary. What a marvelous word, constabulary, isn’t it?”

“The way you chatter, I can’t think.”

“You don’t have to think. Let the local constabulary do the thinking. You and I, we’re teachers, we don’t get paid for thinking, we get paid for teaching, and what a whale of a difference there is.”

“Oh, stop it, Betty.”

Miss Barabou picked up the phone.

Constable Lehman arrived at the school about nine-thirty, a small, droll-faced man in his fifties who took his work, but nothing else, quite seriously. He came in his own private car, an old Buick, a device intended to allay the curiosity of the students. Through no fault of his own the device backfired. A good half of Miss Barabou’s class, and even several members of Miss Wayley’s lower grades, recognized him immediately and such excitement spread through the school that a recess had to be declared.

The children, with the exception of Aggie Schantz, were herded into the yard like wild ponies, and a conference was held in Miss Barabou’s room with the plaid cap on exhibition on her desk. Instead of being nervous, as Miss Barabou had expected, Aggie luxuriated in the special attention she was receiving. She told her story in full detail, and Lehman, who’d had experience with children of his own, did not interrupt her even when she included such nonessentials as what she had for breakfast and how many robins she saw en route to school.

“We count robins,” Miss Barabou said by way of apology and explanation. “For the bird chart. Natural history, you know.”

Lehman’s nod indicated that he understood perfectly, and was, in fact, an old hand at counting robins himself.

“I see more than anybody,” Aggie said, with becoming modesty, “mostly because I have a longer way to go to school. Boris saw an American eagle.”

Lehman pursed his lips. “Did he, now? Well, they say more and more American people are coming up this way every year, why not eagles, too, eh? Can you show me this special path you take down to the beach, Aggie?”

“I can show you. You can’t go down it, though.”

“I can’t, eh? Why not?”

“You’re too old.”

“You may have something there,” Lehman said, and sighed for Aggie’s benefit, and winked for Miss Barabou’s.

Miss Barabou, who was not accustomed to being winked at, blushed in confusion and turned to Aggie. “Of course you’ll show the Constable the path, Agatha. I’ll excuse you from school for the rest of the morning. You go with Constable Lehman.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Get your coat and galoshes on.”

Aggie didn’t move.

“Agatha, did you hear me?”

“I don’t want to go without you.”

“You know perfectly well I have to stay here and supervise my class.”

“You could send them all home,” Aggie said hopefully. “They wouldn’t mind.”

“No, I’m sure they wouldn’t. Neither would I, until it came time to explain to thirty howling parents. Why on earth don’t you want to go with the Constable?”

“The bad men.”

“What bad men?”

“That do nasty things to little girls on beaches.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Miss Barabou’s blush had spread to the tips of her ears and down her neck to the collar of her jersey dress. “I was only trying to — oh well, it doesn’t matter. I give up. I’ll go along, there’s no point in arguing.”

Miss Barabou sat in the back of the Buick alone, holding herself stiff and resistant to the feeling of adventure that was growing inside her with every turn of the road and every glance at the Constable’s face half visible in the rear-view mirror. He’s really quite a nice man. Humorous, too. Betty said she heard he’s a widower, all his children are grown and he lives by himself. He needs a haircut.

She tried to discipline her thoughts by planning the next eighth grade British History assignment, but she could not seem to concentrate properly. The scarlet pompon on the plaid cap which lay on the seat beside her seemed to be taunting her: Come on, live now. The Magna Carta is very old; King John is very dead. Be sporty.

She looked sternly, ponderously, out of the window, though her head felt quite light and empty, as if giddy little bubbles were whirling around inside, released by some strange alchemy she did not understand.

“We’re almost there.” Aggie’s voice pealed with excitement. “Right around the next corner.”

“Roger,” Lehman said.

“What’s that mean?”

“It means right-ho. Roger, dodger, you old codger, I’m a major too.”

“Oh, you make me laugh.”

“I aim to please.”

He stopped the car on the side of the road and all three of them got out, Aggie still giggling behind her hand, Miss Barabou very sober and dignified as if to make up for the levity of the others. Looking down at the water a hundred feet below, and the path by which she was expected to descend, she offered up a short silent prayer.

Lehman said to Aggie, who was impatient to start down the path, “Hold your horses a minute, lass. Now when you found the plaid cap, was it directly below here?”

“No sir. I walked along a piece first until I got tired and sat down and then I found it.”

“About how far did you walk?”

“I don’t know. I can show you down there.”

“Show me up here first.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“Try. Start walking.”

They began walking single file up the road with Aggie in the lead like a general with delusions of troops.

The road was not a main one, and though it was marked on maps as “improved,” the improvements had long since disappeared in the throes of winter. The surface had buckled in places and some of the potholes were as large as Aggie’s head.

Lehman appeared to be watching his footing very carefully, paying no attention to Miss Barabou struggling along in the rear. Aggie was skipping on ahead, not looking down at the road at all but avoiding every bump and hole as if she had made a complete mental map of the route and knew its every pitfall.

“I’m beginning to get tired,” Aggie said, “so I guess it was right about here.”

She looked up expectantly, as if awaiting Lehman’s commendation, but he seemed too preoccupied to notice her. He was staring down at the mud along the side of the road, his eyes narrowed against the morning sun.

“Well?” Miss Barabou said when, out of sorts and breath, she finally caught up with the others.

“Look here, ma’am.”

“I can’t see anything out of the ordinary.”

“No?”

“Some tire marks, that’s all. It’s a road, you’d expect to find tire marks.”

“Not ones leading over the top of the cliff.” Lehman turned to Aggie, who was bouncing all over the place. “Be a good lass and stay out of the way. In fact, how about you going back and waiting in the car?”

“But I haven’t showed you anything yet.”

“You’ve shown me quite a lot more than I expected.”

“Tell me what.”

“Well, stand still a minute. See these marks here? They were made by the tires of an automobile, a new one and a heavy one, my guess is a Lincoln or a Cadillac. Now where do they lead?”

“Nowhere. They just stop.”

“Exactly. They just stop.”

Lehman walked to the edge of the cliff and Miss Barabou followed him, wide-eyed and nervous. “What does it all mean?”

“It means there’s a car down there, perhaps with people in it.”

“People. But we’ve got to do something right away, help them...”

“I’m afraid it would be too late. The marks aren’t fresh and the water’s deep.”

“Perhaps you’re being too pessimistic. It could be that some people just stopped here for a look at the view and went on again. That’s more likely than...”

“There’s no sign that the car turned around.”

Miss Barabou’s hand moved to her throat. “I’ll — I’d better take Aggie back to the car.”

But she stood peering down at the water below, as if she hoped to distinguish the outlines of a car, the contours of people. The glare of sun on water dazzled her eyes and she stumbled back half-blinded.

Lehman caught her by the arm. “Watch it. That’s a long fall.”

“Yes.”

“It’s a city car, I’ll bet you that.”

“How can you tell?”

“Around these parts a person driving an expensive car would still be using snow tires at this time of year. The kind of winters we have up here, we need them. But in a city where the roads are kept clear, snow tires wouldn’t be necessary.” He paused. “I wonder.”

“You wonder what?”

“What makes a person drive over a cliff.”

Lehman drove Miss Barabou and Aggie back to school and left them there with instructions to say nothing to anyone. Then he called the Provincial Police and returned to the cliff. Three police cars were waiting for him when he arrived, as well as the resuscitation squad of the local fire station, all ready to go into action.

No action was necessary.

Two barges, sent down from Meaford with winches and dredging equipment, located the car in twenty feet of water just below the cliff where Lehman had found the tire tracks. The car was barely damaged, the windows and windshield were unbroken, and Ron Galloway was still inside, fastened snugly to the driver’s seat by his safety belt.