CHAPTER TWELVE

Diefenbaker click-clacked on the tiled floor as he approached the reception desk. Not that he could hear it, but the receptionist did. She smiled down at him. "May I help you?" Dief sat back on his haunches and wagged his tail. He looked over his shoulder, then back at her. She understood him perfectly and watched the dark-haired man in jeans, jacket and big hat, holding the door for a veritable parade of wheelchairs as a bus discharged from an outing to the mall. As the last one passed through, he rushed up to the desk.

"His name is Diefenbaker," he said. "And I'm Benton Fraser."

"Nice to meet you both," she said, adding, "I'm May."

"A pleasure, ma'am." She called Dief to her and patted his head. Fraser continued, "I'm looking for Mrs. Helen Barrowman."

"Oh, yes." May pointed to a door behind her. "Helen would be in the dayroom right now. Sign the book please, then you can go right ahead. You can't miss it."

"He can wait outside if -"

"Oh, no. We allow pets." She looked at Dief as he whined in objection to the p-word. "It's therapeutic for them."

"Thank you, kindly." He opened the door and held it for Dief. In the distance, he heard a man's voice call, "N twenty three, N twenty three."

Their progress through the senior center was slow as Dief was enthusiastically petted and patted by everyone they passed, staff and residents both. Some of the residents were in wheelchairs, or used walkers. A few dozed in overstuffed armchairs. Fraser smiled and greeted everyone by name. All of the elderly denizens wore name tags with big letters. No Helens among this group. Dief was gracious and patient, dipping his head here, licking a hand, there. A few treats were slipped his way, but Fraser didn't object.

As May had promised, the dayroom was easy to find, as huge neon green letters spelling out DAYROOM were painted over the entrance. They stepped into a sunny room, filled with long tables, bingo cards, and a flock of more active white-haired people. The BINGO game was in full swing.

A natty gentleman wearing a scarlet bow tie turned a crank and reached into a wire cage. "I- nine. I- nine," he called, in a reedy voice.

"Bingo! Bingo!" A diminutive woman screamed as a large woman yelled the same. The chant was taken up by others. There was a flutter of activity, and an argument broke out between the two woman as to who was first. Ink daubers were brandished. A professional-looking woman in a pink suit stepped into the fray. Fraser watched in admiration as she disarmed the combatants, literally and figuratively. She nimbly smoothed over the disagreement, confirmed the BINGOs and declared a tie. A red balloon was awarded to each winner, who resumed the game with smiles, amid the congratulations of their fellow players. Peace was restored to the Morris Fliegelman Senior Daycare Center.

Fraser had called the telephone number provided by Bill Pulaski for Helen Barrowman. The woman who answered informed him that her mother spent every day at the Senior Center, and that he should feel free to talk to her there. They had walked from the apartment. It was a crisp, clear day and they needed the exercise, even if Dief had complained the whole way.

Fraser took advantage of the hubbub over the game to read more name tags. No Helens here either. He was about to go back to reception and ask where else Helen might be found when the woman in pink said, "May I help you, young man?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said, "I'm looking for Helen Barrowman."

She extended her hand. "You've found her." Her voice held a faint Southern accent.

Fraser rocked back on his heels. He was a fool. This woman was 65 years old, give or take. A generation younger than the octogenarians that made up most of the room. She was petite, trim, with silver-blonde hair cut in a stylish bob. Vibrant and vital, Helen Barrowman was not the frail old woman he had expected to find.

She was still holding out her hand. "How do you do, Mr. –?"

He hastily returned the handshake. "Benton Fraser, ma'am," and introduced Dief.

She stooped and took his muzzle in her hands. "My, my, you are a handsome devil!" She glanced coquettishly at Fraser through lowered lashes. "And so's your dog." Straightening, she cocked her head to one side, and looked him up and down. She reminded him of a bright, curious sparrow. "You served with my husband?"

"No, ma'am. I never had the honor."

She put one hand on her heart and the other palm out to him in a dramatic gesture. She exaggerated her accent. "Sir, you must desist with ma'aming me or I do declare, you will make me feel positively ancient."

"Yes, ma' am." He blushed. "I mean, no, uh, Mrs. Barrowman." He tugged at his collar.

She took pity on him. "Call me Helen. What did you want to see me about, Benton?"

"Is there somewhere we could talk privately/" Fraser asked, as a chorus of Bingos erupted at a nearby table.

"My office," she said, leading the way down a corridor lined with occupied wheelchairs. It was like running a gray gauntlet. Each person that she passed was an occasion to pause for a word or touch. She complemented the hairstyle of one woman, the manicure of a second, flirted with one old man, and teased another. She bent to tuck an afghan around one wizened person of such extreme age that Fraser couldn't discern gender. Eventually, they reached her office, leaving a trail of good cheer in her wake. Helen Barrowman, Activity Director was stenciled on the door. The office was small and cluttered. One wall was covered with photographs of the men and women in her care, a smiling Helen in every one. She scooped up files from a chair.

"Please, have a seat."

He stood until she took the seat behind the desk. She offered him tea from a cozy-covered pot. As she handed him the cup, she said, "It's about those parking tickets, isn't it?"

"No, ma'am," he said, then at her raised eyebrows, "... uh, Helen."

She appraised him. "But you are a police officer?"

"I am," he hesitated, then added, "Royal Canadian Mounted Police."

"A Mountie!" She was delighted. "Can you sing?"

He sighed. That seemed to be the prevailing question that Americans asked upon meeting him for the first time. That, or whether he had a horse.

"So I am told."

"A Mountie, here in Chicago," she said, sipping her tea. "You're far from home, I'll wager. Where is that?"

"The Yukon, most recently."

"And, before that?"

"Inuvik."

Before he knew it, Fraser found himself telling her about working at the Consulate, living in the city, liaising with the Chicago P.D. and how much he missed his prior life in the North. Dief stared up at him in surprise. Fraser stopped abruptly, shocked at the ease with which he had talked about himself to a perfect stranger. He sniffed at the contents of his teacup suspiciously, but detected only orange pekoe.

She noticed his discomfiture. "I'm told I'm easy to talk to," she said, with an impish smile. Then, she set down her teacup and said, "What is this about, Officer?"

Fraser set his own cup down on the desk. He explained that Lieutenant Commander Pulaski had advised him to contact her. She asked after Bill and his wife, and was pleased to hear that they were expecting.

"He served with my husband at the Calumet Harbor Station for many years. Fine young man."

"It's in that connection that I came to see you."

"But, that was a long time ago. How can I help now?"

Fraser reached into his breast pocket and extracted his handkerchief. "I hope that you can tell me something about this." He unfolded the handkerchief and handed the Semper Paratus patch to her.

"Oh, my." She looked at the patch with surprise. "I haven't seen one of these in years."

He leaned in, eagerly. "Then, you do recognize it?"

"Oh, yes. Though it's in terrible shape. Where did you get it?"

He hesitated, careful as to how much he should reveal. "Diefenbaker tore it from the sleeve of a jacket."

"Was someone wearing the jacket at the time?" she prompted, amused at his reticence.

"Yes."

She narrowed her eyes, all trace of amusement gone. She shook the patch at him, accusingly. "Is this going to get someone in trouble?"

He didn't flinch from her steely gaze. "I think the person who wore that patch is already in trouble."

She waited, tapping her fingers on the desk.

He met her gaze for a long moment, then made up his mind. He told her about the confrontation in the alley, about Dief's intervention and struggle with Dave, of the gunplay and car chase, reserving only the detail of the maple syrup.

When he was finished, she sat back, staring down at the patch. "And this? This is all you have to find these men?"

"Yes."

She spoke, slowly. "The new patch for the Station looks a lot like this. The only difference is there's now a lighthouse on it."

Fraser nodded. "Yes, I saw it on display at the station."

"The lighthouse design was added when the Calumet Light was restored. To commemorate it, you see. That was six ... no, seven years ago now." She traced the outline of the motto with a finger. "But the colors and the style of the lettering on this one are the same," she paused. "This is definitely our Station patch."

"How long would you say this patch was in commission?"

She pursed her lips and thought. "Oh, I'd say about 10 years before that. My George was promoted to commander in 1983 and it was in use then."

He did the math. "So, this patch could have been in use from 1978-1988?"

"Yes, I should think so."

"How many people would wear one of those?"

"Every officer or enlisted person stationed at the Calumet Light station during that time, their families, friends." She rolled her eyes. "That would be a lot of Daves."

"I don't think Dave served at the Station."

"Why do you say that?"

"An impression," he said, shrugging slightly. "He seemed too young." He paused. "Besides, the patch wasn't his."

She nodded. "That's right. He said it was his father's jacket."

"His dad's, yes. He seemed quite upset that it was torn."

She nodded, sagely. "Afraid he'd be in big trouble with his father for tearing it."

Something in what she said jarred him, stirring something in memory. Fraser shook his head, then closed his eyes, trying to reel in the elusive thread. Something. He summoned the events in the alley and played them back in his mind's eye and ear. Again. And again. Something there. Dief tore the jacket. Dave spoke. Al shot the gun. The car chased him. No, go back. When young Dave spoke. Something in what he said. Something. Not what he said! No, it was the way he said it!

"But it was my dad's jacket!"

No, it wasn't fear that he'd get in trouble.

"But it was my dad's jacket!"

Dismay, yes.

"But it was my dad's jacket!"

Regret, yes, that was there, too.

"But it was my dad's jacket!"

Sorrow. It was sorrow.

"Mr. Fraser? Benton? Benton!"

Fraser opened his eyes and took a cleansing breath. Helen was looking at him with concern. He smiled reassuringly.

"No, Helen. Dave wasn't afraid of his father's reaction." He touched the watch strapped to his wrist. "This was my father's," he said, softly. "If it were lost or damaged, I would speak of it the same way as Dave did about the jacket."

She looked at the watch, then up at him in sudden comprehension. "His father is dead."

He nodded, slowly. "Yes, I think so."

She handed back the patch. "I should think it would be possible to request the names of personnel stationed at Calumet for that time period. With sons named Dave. The Coast Guard would have that information, surely."

"It may be possible. But, unfortunately, I don't have that access or authority. This is an unofficial inquiry." He looked earnestly at her. "I must use unofficial resources."

"Unofficial resources?" She gaped at him as the penny dropped. "You mean me?!"

"Yes."

She laughed, weakly. "But that's ridiculous! It was years ago! That Station had fifty officers and enlisted personnel assigned at any given time, constantly being shuffled in and out over the years."

"Yes."

She shook her head, vigorously. "It's impossible."

"Perhaps," he acknowledged. "Perhaps not. The human memory is an amazing thing." He held her gaze. "And you were the center of that Station, Helen."

"Me? Pooh!" She waved a hand dismissively. "I was just the commander's wife."

He shook his head. "You're wrong, Helen."

"What do you mean?"

"You forged the community that was the Station; you planned the picnics, the luncheons, the dinners, the pancake breakfasts; you circulated the news: reported the births, the transfers, the retirements, the deaths." He smiled, gently. "Yes, your husband was the head of the Station. But you ... you were its heart." Fraser spread his hands, encompassing the senior center itself. "As I believe you are here."

She was at a loss for words. He had touched her, deeply, with his own.

"If you'll try, Helen, I can help you to remember."

"I'll try," she whispered.

"Good," he said. "Close your eyes. Lean back. Relax," he said, in a soothing voice. She did as he instructed. "Good. Now breathe slowly and deeply. With each breath, let all the tension flow out of your body, through your fingers and toes ..." He continued with the words of the relaxation exercise he used to trigger a meditative state. He closed his own eyes.

She breathed. He breathed. Dief breathed.

He said, softly and evenly, "Cast your mind back. It is the year 1983. Your husband ... George ... is the new commander of the Calumet Harbor Station."

"Yes," she murmured. "I am so proud of him. He's worked so hard." She frowned. "The lighthouse is in a terrible state."

He continued. "You are a partner in your husband's command. He sees to the men and women who serve under him. You see to their families. You know these families. The husbands, the wives, the children, the new babies."

"Oh, yes," she smiled, dreamily. "I love the babies. I knit receiving blankets for the newborns." Her fingers moved slightly, as if she was handling needles and yarn.

His voice was soft, coaxing. "You celebrate it all. The engagements, the weddings, the promotions, the holidays."

"On a base, there is always something to celebrate." She chuckled. "And when there's not, we have a party anyway."

Fraser paused, then continued in a sober tone. "When someone is sick or injured, you are there."

"Yes," she said, sighing. "The waiting is a hard thing, especially if they're alone. Sometimes, I just sit with them. At home. Or at the hospital."

His voice deepened. "And when someone dies, you are there too."

"Yes," she breathed. "Oh, that's the hardest of all."

Fraser chose his words carefully. "Think back, Helen. One of the men under George's command ... perhaps an officer ... perhaps an enlisted man ... has a son by the name of David." He paused. "This man will die. Perhaps, while stationed at Calumet Harbor. Perhaps, at a later time." He drew a breath. "But you, Helen, you would know this. Because you keep track of the men and women and their families. Even after they move on from your husband's command. You stay in touch. You care what happens to them."

She smiled wistfully, eyes still closed. "Yes," she whispered. "They're family."

"This man's son. He may be a young boy when you knew him." .

She drew a slow breath.

"His name is David."

She was silent, eyes still closed, breath slow and even.

"Perhaps, they call him Dave." He paused. "Or Davey."

Her eyes flew open. "Davey! Oh, my God!" She put a hand to her mouth. "Davey Everett!" She stared at him, eyes brimming. Then, she let out a sob.

He instantly knelt by her side, fumbling for his handkerchief. Diefenbaker laid his head in her lap and whined.

She dabbed at her eyes. "Poor Davey! Oh, the poor child." Her voice broke and a fresh wave of tears engulfed her. She buried her head in his shoulder. He put his arms around her and patted her back, inwardly kicking himself for reducing this lovely woman to tears. Gradually, she regained her composure and pulled away from him, mopping her eyes with his hankie. Dief stayed close, and she stroked his head for several minutes.

When she spoke, her voice was husky. "His father's name was Tom. Tom Everett. He was transferred in from Lake Ontario. His wife had died a few years before we knew them. Breast cancer, if I remember rightly." She paused, taking a breath. "Davey was their only child." She smiled wanly. "A sweet, darling boy. But so quiet."

"What happened to Tom Everett?"

Helen looked troubled. "He never got over his wife's death. Mind you, he did his duty. George had no complaints there. But, Tom ... he was so young himself when he lost her. Poor man." She wiped at her eyes again and took a steadying breath. "Grief can drive a family closer together. Or tear it apart. Tom poured himself into his work and when that wasn't enough, he poured a drink. A lonely grieving child was more than he could handle." She bent her head over Dief and stroked his ears. "Poor Davey."

Fraser stilled. Davey's story struck a little too close for comfort. When next he spoke, his voice was carefully devoid of emotion. "What happened?"

"Tom was killed one night. He was leaving a bar, and stepped out in the street without looking, right in front of an oncoming car. The poor man was thrown up and over the windshield and landed over fifty feet away. It was horrible." She dabbed at her eyes again. "Davey was nine. George and I had to tell him his father was dead. There was no one else." She drew a shaky breath.

"And what became of Davey?"

"He went to live with his grandmother. In Elgin, I believe. His mother's mother." She frowned. "I tried to keep in touch. But the grandmother didn't approve of her daughter's choice of husband and cut all ties there." She sighed deeply. "Shame on me, I haven't thought of Davey in years." She looked at Fraser wonderingly, and rested a warm, soft hand on his cheek. "What did you do to me, young man? I feel like I've traveled years back in time. The memories feel so fresh!"

"You did it, Helen. A form of deep relaxation, almost self-hypnosis." He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you unhappy."

She brushed the tears away. "I'm being a silly goose." She gave him a wistful smile. "There are happy memories here, too." She hugged herself. "It almost feels like my George is here with me now."

"No. Just me," a voice said from behind her. Fraser looked up sharply. His father was standing behind Helen. She had bent over Dief again and missed his reaction.

He mouthed, "Go away!" As usual, it had no effect.

Helen rubbed her cheek against Dief's soft fur. He nuzzled closer. Her voice was muffled when she spoke. "Poor Davey. If you find him, you'll help him?"

"I'll try, ma'am."

She sat up with a watery smile. "I thought we settled that, Benton."

"Yes, Helen, I'll try." He smiled, warmly. "Thank you for your help."

"Oh, pooh!" she said, waving a hand in dismissal. "If you find Davey, will you and Diefenbaker come back and tell me about him?"

"We will," he promised.

"And sing for us?"

"If you'd like."

She brightened. "Do you have one of those red suits and a Mountie hat?" At his nod, she said delightedly, "Then wear that when you do!"

"Yes, ma'am!"

She walked him and Dief to the door of her office. He took his leave of her, then shocked himself when he leaned down and impulsively kissed her cheek. She smiled, then quietly closed the door of her office.

As he walked out of the Center, his father was on his heels. "Fine woman there, son. Damn fine." Fraser held the door for him. His father cleared his throat and looked him straight in the eye. "Reminds me of your mother." He spun on his heel and strode through the door.

Fraser stared after him. He touched the cheek where Helen had rested her hand. Me, too, Dad, he thought, as he followed him to the sidewalk.