Bones to Ashes

Climbing into the Impala was like climbing into a pottery kiln.

As Hippo turned onto the highway, I maxed the AC and held a hand to the vent. Hot air blasted my fingers.

“L’air conditionné est brisé.”

On Hippo’s tongue the word for broken came out “breezy.” Hardly.

Static erupted from the radio. I peeled damp hair from my neck as I waited it out.

“Have you checked the coolant?”

“Pain in the ass.” Hippo waved dismissively. “Heat won’t last. Never does.”

I bit back a comment. Useless. Coolant was probably a mystery to Hippo’s mind.

When I lowered my window, the smell of fertilizer and fresh-mown fields flooded the car.

I slumped back, shot forward as scorching vinyl contacted bare skin. Crossing my arms, I eased into the seat, closed my eyes, and let the wind whip my hair.

I knew from past experience that riding with Hippo was like riding “El Torro” at the Rodeo Bar. I gripped the armrest as we hurtled through the countryside at neck-snapping speed, Hippo’s boot slamming gas pedal then brake.

“This Tiquet’s not a bad guy.”

I opened my eyes. We were looping onto the fifteen. “What did he tell you?”

“Says he got a call reporting a disturbance at a quarry maybe five, six years back. Busted a couple kids for trespass and destruction of property. Geeks claimed to be spray-paint artists creating timeless works of beauty.”

I braced against the dash as Hippo swerved around a pickup. The driver gave him the finger. Hippo’s expression suggested a rejoinder in the making.

“The skeleton?” I brought Hippo back on point.

“Turned up in the trunk when Tiquet tossed their car.”

“Where was this quarry?”

“Somewhere near the Quebec–New Brunswick border. Tiquet’s vague on that.”

“Did he remember the kids’ names?”

“No, but he pulled the file. I’ve got them written down.”

“Fair enough. He got the skeleton in a bust. But why did he keep it?”

“Says he contacted the coroner.”

“Bradette?”

“That’s the guy. Bradette dropped in, took a look, told him he should call an archaeologist. Tiquet didn’t exactly have one in his Rolodex.”

“And he never got around to looking one up.”

“Bingo.”

A pothole launched us both toward the ceiling.

“Moses! Sorry.”

“What explanation did these kids give?”

“Claimed they bought the bones from a pawnshop operator. Planned to do some sort of spray-painted sculpture with them.”

“Nice. Where did the pawnbroker get them?”

“Tiquet didn’t know.”

“Where was the pawn guy from?”

“Miramichi.”

I turned and looked out the window. We were back in the city now, and exhaust fumes had replaced the smell of turned earth. An auto body shop flashed by. A seedy strip center. A Petro-Canada station.

“Where is Miramichi?”

“New Brunswick.”

“It’s a big province, Hippo.”

Hippo’s brow furrowed. “Good point, doc. Miramichi’s a city of eighteen, maybe twenty thousand. But the name also refers to the river and the region in general.”

“But where is it?”

“Northumberland County.”

Fighting back an eye roll, I wiggled my fingers in a “give me more” gesture.

“Northeast coast of New Brunswick.”

“Acadia?”

“Deep in the heart.”

I listened to blacktop whump under our tires. Beyond the windshield, a layer of smog was buffing up the sunset, bathing the city in a soft, golden glow.

Miramichi. I’d heard of the place. In what context?

Suddenly, I remembered.

11

T HE SUMMER I WAS TEN AND ÉVANGÉLINE WAS TWELVE, SHE described an event that had occurred the previous December. The incident had so troubled her, she’d been unable to write of it in her letters.

Entrusting Obéline to a neighbor, Évangéline’s mother had driven to a nearby town for groceries. That was unusual, since Laurette habitually shopped in Tracadie. Leaving the market, she’d directed her daughter to return to their old Ford and wait for her.

Curious, Évangéline had watched her mother round the corner, then followed. Laurette entered a pawnshop. Through the window, Évangéline saw her in animated conversation with a man. Frightened, Évangéline had hurried back to the car.

Laurette owned a single piece of jewelry, a sapphire ring with tiny white diamonds. Though unaware of its history, Évangéline was certain the ring never left her mother’s finger. When Laurette slid behind the wheel that day, the ring was gone. Évangéline never saw it again.

Our childish imaginations conjured stories of heartbreak and lost love. A handsome fiancé killed in the war. A Montague-Capulet feud, Acadian style. We wrote verse rhyming the name of the town. Peachy. Beachy. Lychee.

That’s how I remembered.

Évangéline and her mother had gone to Miramichi.

Did Hippo’s girl come from Miramichi?

“How far is Miramichi from Tracadie?” More crazy possibilities swept through my mind.

“’Bout fifty miles.”

Impossible. There was no reason to think Évangéline was not alive.

“Straight down Highway 11.”