Mâtowak: Woman Who Cries

Chapter 1 Blood. So much blood. Pooling on the slate tiles around his head. Leland—dead? I always assumed he'd outlive me. Mean people are lucky that way. But maybe that is what's wrong. He used to be mean. After our sons died, he changed. With my palm firmly pressed to my chest, I still my erratic thoughts. Giddiness overwhelms me. I drop my purse and grip the edge of the countertop. Tears blur my vision. An uncomfortable heat descends upon me, similar to those hot flashes I suffered for ten years. Ohmigosh, now I'm blubbering like a fool. Leland gone? I don't believe it. I slip off my ankle boots. Bare feet on cold tiles ground me. The kitchen phone is on the wall next to the breakfast table clear across the room. I can't make it that far. My fingers grope across the marble counter and connect with Leland's cell phone. I detach it from the charger and gawk at its keypad. A second passes before I'm sure I hear Leland say: 911. Dial 911, you stupid woman. Morning light struggles to force its way through a ceiling of black clouds and makes the space around me grainy like salted air. I suck back sobs and, despite the rancid taste of death, take two deep breaths. “911 Emergency Services. Fire, police, or ambulance?” a male voice asks. I stare at Leland's body. “Ambulance…and police.” My call is redirected. Suddenly, a woman speaks to me, but the ringing in my ears prevents me from hearing what she says. “Pardon?” “What is the nature of your emergency?” “My husband is dead. There is a hole—” “Your name, ma'am?” “Sally Warner.” “Are you in your residence, Sally? Your ID is blocked. What's your address?” My address? I think for a moment and then tell her. The smell of blood burns my nose and throat. My stomach contents rise. I can't take my eyes off his blood pooling on the floor. “The police and ambulance are on their way, Sally. Are you okay? Do you know what happened?” “Happened? No. I was upstairs. I heard nothing. I was getting ready for an appointment downtown. Leland was fine. He was sitting at the breakfast table reading the newspaper. I went up to shower thirty minutes ago—not that I spent the entire thirty minutes in the shower. I had to find the right suit to wear because I've lost a great deal of weight, and well, all my clothes feel so weird because they're stiff and new and—” I take a deep breath, ashamed of my babblings. A gust of cold wind sweeps over me. “The door's open. Where's Digger?” Leland's dead on our kitchen floor, and I'm thinking about my dog? The operator clears her throat loudly. “The police are on their way. Are you alone? I don't mean to alarm you, Sally, but could there be anyone else inside your house?” “Inside my house?” The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I peek around the corner and stare out through the open service entrance to the quiet threshold. My legs tremble. Could I make it to the door? The monitor below the hidden camera shows no one lurking outside. “The service door is open. That probably means whoever did this is gone, don't you think?” “I'm sure it does, Sally. I'll stay on the line with you until the police arrive. They'll be there soon. We'll wait together.” I stare down at Leland's body, wipe my nose, and shiver. “Okay, that would be good. Thank you.” The smell reminds me of something, but I can't remember what. My frazzled brain registers one word: violence. Violence took place in my home. Violence means rage. “He isn't well liked.” “The police are on their way, Sally,” she says in a soothing voice. “He's only home because he's due in court tomorrow. He always takes a day off to refresh himself and to review the material. Those years he spent in Parliament left him rusty. At least that is what he said when he first got home from Ottawa. But honestly, Leland never does anything half-heartedly.” “Pardon me. Did you say Leland? Do you mean you're those Warners, the ones from the government?” “He's not well liked at all.” I cough. I've been referring to him in the present tense; I must stop. “Leland upset the status quo. Before he took the office, he went against the Minister of Defence and urged taxpayers to spend millions on those new helicopters for our soldiers in Afghanistan. It's because of him that Canada had its own spy planes instead of leasing them from the United States. Oh yes—and he made sure our troops received new tanned uniforms. But what choice did he have? Our troops were dressed in jungle fatigues in the middle of the desert. It was humiliating and dangerous. They deserved better.” The operator clears her throat. “Excuse me. Is your husband the Leland Warner?” That is a dumb question. Unless she means...of course. Warner is a common enough name. But Leland was different. Disparaged. Even so, that is not what I'm trying to tell her. He was hungry for power and justice. A strange coupling. “He hated the world laughing at Canada because we couldn't dress our soldiers properly.” “Are we talking about…the former Minister of National Defence Leland Warner? The one in the news? Your sons...” The operator stutters, “Ah-ah. Okay. Sure. Uh...” She mumbles something to someone in the background. It's now I realize I hear other voices, other operators talking to distressed victims. I'm not the only one whose world is falling apart. Except, she'd said “Your sons,” didn't she? She's referring to what happened to Bronson and Declan. She must be thinking about the night they were murdered. Of course, the whole country knew about it. “I'm right here with you until help comes, Mrs. Warner. Can you see your husband from where you are?” “He's on the floor.” My heart aches for my boys. “I didn't touch anything. Do you think I should check for a pulse, just in case?” It wouldn't matter; I know he's dead. I turn my back on him and hug one arm across my chest. The stench rising from his body is quite awful, not vile like the dead squirrel Bronson placed in my bed so many years ago, but smelly like a public restroom. “Should I shut my door?” I'm afraid to approach the door. What if whomever did this is outside? Waiting for me? That is silly. I press my palm against my chest, but this time it's not calming me down. I need my sweater. Dear God, I can't go through this again. “Are you using a cell phone?” she asks. “Do you want to go to another room? Perhaps outside? I'll stay on the line with you.” “No. I want...” I don't finish because I'm not sure what I want. Someone to find my dog after they fix this terrible moment. Someone to take away my husband's body and with it the fear, though I know it will stay with me forever. I swallow and cough up my own sobs. The operator's breathing on the other end of the line is shallow. “I just—I want someone to tell me...what do I do now?”