Authors: Linden MacIntyre
“Oh, John,” she said.
“I eventually understood all the reasons. But that one was the easiest to live with. At the time. Me sterile.”
Then they sat in the timeless silence, where there was no longer past or future, just the frozen moment.
In the morning he was gone. He’d spent the night, snoring loudly on her chesterfield—she could hear him from her bedroom. But by morning it was as if he’d never been there, as if their conversation, so deep and in so many ways so deeply sad, had never happened. Where did he go from her place? How did he find his car? What had drawn him to the relative turmoil of the city, into a vortex of unhappy memories that almost all began and ended with her? Effie. MacAskill. Gillis.
J
C didn’t call or send the promised email. She never really thought he would. By Wednesday evening she allowed herself to miss him. The night was long and sleepless in the bed they’d shared. She tried to count the times but fell asleep. Then woke, imagining she heard a sound. Fell asleep again, channelled vague scenes from a movie she remembered.
Dead Man Walking
. Woke up again. JC told her once that she reminded him of Susan Sarandon. She’d laughed. Susan Sarandon with tiny titties. Tiny? I don’t think so. You’re a liar, she accused. They wrestled. Now the word kept her awake: Liar.
Where is he?
He’d been the first to share this room, this bed—the one she’d bought for Sextus. It was Easter Sunday night, not quite a year ago. JC had shown surprising confidence for a first visit to a lady’s bedroom. A lady of some standing, a lady of a certain age. She’d been thinking,
He’s as casual as if he’s here to buy the place and I’m his realtor
. Except they were holding hands. They’d both had a considerable amount to drink, but she was clear in mind and purpose.
“I’m surprised,” she’d said, while they were in the kitchen, cleaning up. “That in all those late-night cleanup sessions years ago,
when you and I would be the last ones standing … you never tried anything.”
“I could say the same thing,” he said.
“Really, though. We could have got away with murder.”
That was how it started.
Later, “So tell me, Mr. Campbell. Back then, when a guy like you
did
decide to make a move, how would you begin?”
He smiled, loosened his necktie, folded his dish towel neatly, set it down, patted it gently. “I remember once … we danced, you and me,” he said. “You probably don’t even remember.”
She nodded.
“I even remember the tune,” he said. “ ‘A Whiter Shade of Pale,’ I’m pretty sure. Up till that moment, I always associated it with people smoking dope. Ever after, any time I heard it playing, it was us slow dancing in your kitchen. Your husband comatose in the next room. I’m sure you don’t remember.”
“And what prevented you from taking advantage of the situation?”
“Well, for openers, it never crossed my mind that you’d have been even slightly interested. But also, if I recall correctly, there was a baby somewhere.”
She laughed. “Very good.”
“And I suppose I was afraid of disappointing you.”
“How would you disappoint me?”
“Men are almost always disappointing women.”
“Almost always? There are exceptions?”
“Yes. Bad guys. Bad guys never disappoint. Maybe that’s why girls like the bad guys.”
She walked to the stove, conscious of his eyes on her back. “Coffee?”
“How about another small brandy?”
She turned, the brandy in her hand, swirling it. “And if there was no baby … and no drunk husband in the next room?”
He stood. “And we’re dancing to that tune?” Then he was in front of her, head tilted slightly, hands on her hips, body swaying as he shifted from foot to foot, a kind of shuffle dance to silent music. “I don’t know for sure.” He seemed to concentrate. There was moisture on his upper lip. “Maybe,” he said finally, stopping the movement, now staring straight into her eyes. “Maybe I’d have …” With a nimble thumb and forefinger he undid two buttons on her blouse. She raised an automatic hand, placed it just below her throat. He removed the glass of brandy from her other hand. “And you’d have done exactly that,” he said. And sipped.
“And what would that have told you?”
“Nothing.” He sipped again, the music clearly playing in his head.
“Ah.”
“The revelation would follow, in due course. You’d ask me, or tell me, to leave. I wouldn’t expect you to hit me. Or you might have been … subtly … positive.”
“Subtly?”
“I’ve always had you figured for a subtle kind of … woman.”
“Girl, you almost said.”
“Woman.”
“Okay. How subtle?”
“You would have kept your hand upon your throat for maybe a minute, looking a bit confused.”
“Yes.”
He leaned closer, until their foreheads almost touched, eyes studying the hand still lightly clutching the loose fabric of her open shirt. A strand of hair had fallen across her brow. He gently brushed
it back, then placed his hand on her neck, thumb resting on her cheek. He put the glass of brandy down behind her on the counter.
“Tell me something. You’re the Gaelic scholar. Why are tits … I should say breasts … always masculine in Gaelic?”
“My, my,” she said. “Aren’t you full of small surprises? Where did you hear that?”
“I studied the language of Eden during my brief time at the university.”
“I didn’t realize they taught those kinds of things.”
“Actually, there was a native speaker in the class. One day he asked how come.”
“And the professor said?”
“He said we’d get to grammar in the second semester. Of course, by the second semester I was long gone.”
“Gone where?”
“Ah. That’s a whole other story. So why masculine?”
“I think your native speaker and the prof were out to lunch.”
“Really. So yours are … feminine?”
“What do you think?”
“Umm. I’d have to agree with you.”
“So you’ve opened buttons.
Mo chiochan
half-exposed and we’re dancing … kind of.”
“Yes, we’ve resumed dancing as if you’ve forgotten the buttons, and then, near the end of the song, I’d probably have kissed you.”
And with his thumb now beneath her chin, he tilted her head slightly and was kissing her, first lightly, then with an intensity that, even though she was prepared for it, still caught her by surprise.
Ray had written a brief note and enclosed it with the articles he photocopied. According to the doctor who had assessed JC, he’d
shown signs of mild TBI (traumatic brain injury) on the Glasgow Coma Scale. She felt her stomach lurch. Ray’s note was reassuring, though. He explained that a high number on the Glasgow scale was a good thing, and JC had been rated at 13 out of a possible 15. His MRI was normal. So there was nothing to worry about. Just give him time. Headaches, mood swings and mild episodes of frustration related to difficulty thinking clearly were to be expected. She was not to be unduly worried if he showed fatigue, mild depression, slight staggers, olfactory impairment. She should be prepared for small surprises for, perhaps, a year. Barring a repeat performance, JC would be good as new. Ray said he was dying to meet him, that he sounded like a fascinating man.
“Bear in mind,” he wrote, “this prognosis is second-hand, from friends in neurology. I’m a gynecologist. My expertise is on the other end of a different kind of patient.”
By Thursday night she gave in to a gnawing loneliness. Fought it briefly, remembering John’s visit. John
had
to get married. John was going to be a father. She admitted that she had conflicted feelings about the news. JC said he was going to Texas for “a week”—or was it for “the week.” Did that mean seven days, or five?
She called Cassie. “Valentine’s Day,” she said. “I want you to keep it open. I want to have a little party, for you and Ray. Invite some friends. We can tell people then about April tenth.”
“Valentine’s Day?”
“Yes. Is there a problem?”
“Not really, but it’s Ray’s birthday, too.”
“No kidding. Then we can tell people it’s a small birthday party, and then spring the real news.”
“Did you tell JC yet?” Cassie asked.
“No. Actually, I haven’t seen much of him for the past … while.”
“Oh.”
“He went to Texas for the week. That fellow Sam. I don’t know what to call him—friend, project. Whatever. He went down to see him. But he’ll be back. Certainly by Valentine’s.”
“Mother. You don’t sound—”
“Oh, stop it. It’s the third week of January, for God’s sake. The
faoilteach
. It’s always like this.”
“What is?”
“The
faoilteach
.”
“The what?”
“It’s from the word for “wolf.” It was when the wolves … oh, Christ. Never mind. I have to go. I have the kettle on.”
“Mother?”
“Bye.”
Her hand was shaking.
Sonofabitch bastard
, she thought.
I can’t believe I let this happen again. How old do you have to be before you’re immune to this bullshit? Why didn’t I tell Cassie about John’s visit, that he’d been here? What am I afraid of?
To visit Duncan at the shelter was an impulsive thing to do and, sitting in the cab on Sherbourne, she had growing reservations. Duncan never liked surprises, unannounced intrusions into his private life. She went anyway. The Epiphany was past. The Epiphany was her excuse.
The image of JC wandering on Jarvis Street returned, and she struggled with the questions that were lingering like the fumes of booze and cigarettes he’d left behind. She knew from personal experience that everyone has secrets. We keep secrets mostly for the benefit of others. What about lies? Why do we lie?
When they stopped in front of the shelter, the cab driver smiled and said, “You must be a social worker.”
“No,” she said, as she stuffed her wallet into her coat pocket and opened the car door. “I’m not a social worker.”
The street was shabby: abandoned-looking brick buildings with commercial frontage; large, blank windows, some papered over; faded signage from long ago relevance, perhaps prosperity.
There were four men near an entranceway, and she looked above them for the sign. “Hope Is Refuge,” it said, and she walked toward them, nodding as she approached. They stared back silently.
The door was locked. She scanned for a buzzer, doorbell, intercom. She felt stranded, nervous. And still she was shocked when someone said, “Big feeling twat.” The voice was too close.
Then Duncan spoke. “You guys move along. It’ll be another hour.” His face was flushed, eyes hard. “You’d better come in,” her brother said.
The place seemed empty, tidy. There was an overpowering odour of antiseptic detergent. Somewhere, a radio or stereo was playing “I Guess That’s Why They Call It the Blues.” She walked behind her brother toward a door and waited while he selected a key from a bundle that he had taken from his pocket, then she followed him into an office that was austere, furnished with a small desk, an office chair and a vinyl-covered couch. There was a wooden crucifix prominent on the wall behind the desk.
He waved her to the couch and went behind the desk and sat there on a creaky chair with wheels, elbows on the desktop. Briefly, he covered his face with his hands and sighed, and when he looked at her, his face seemed sad. In the harsh light of the office, she noticed dark crescents below his eyes.
“You shouldn’t have come here, or you should have told me.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t think—”
“It isn’t that,” he said. “That was unusual. They tend to be polite.”
Suddenly she felt ashamed, coming to this place to talk about herself and her anxieties. Pathetic. Duncan was sitting back now, elbow cradled in the palm of one hand, the other cupping his chin and cheek. “You’re okay?”
“I’m okay,” she said.
He was studying her face. She had intended to ask him to come out for coffee and a chat. Now she was uncertain how to even start a conversation. She considered speaking Gaelic but realized she lacked the fluency, perhaps in English, too, for deciphering the nuances of the love and lies and loss that now distracted her.
“I was thinking of volunteering,” she said impulsively, shocked by her unconsidered words.
“Here?”
“Yes,” she said, emboldened. “It would be a relief from the ivory tower.”
He stood. “I don’t think so,” he said. “One of us is enough.”
She stared, waiting. Finally she asked, “What do you mean by that?”
“It’s going to get pretty hectic here in a few minutes. We can talk another time.”
He walked to the office door and opened it, stood there waiting. “How is JC, anyway?”
“He’s fine,” she said, then stood. “He’s away just now.”
“Right,” he said. “So I heard.”
“You heard?”
She could hear voices somewhere and the clatter of dishes, and she could smell steam and food aromas.
“
Bidh mi gad fhaicinn
,” she said.
“Yes,” he said, distracted. “See you around.”
She decided to walk to the subway station on Bloor, at least a mile away.
I lied
, she thought, waiting for the light at Wellesley. And she almost laughed aloud at the irony. She went to see her brother seeking insight about lies, then lied about the reason for her visit. But she had to admit she felt better. Everybody lies.
At home in bed, she tried to think of someone in her life who hadn’t lied at one time or another for some momentarily important reason.
And for the first time in a long time she thought of Conor Ferguson. Conor, who had told her up front there are always necessary lies—benevolent deceptions, he would call them. “Everybody has the capacity to lie,” he said. “But the biggest lie is always why we lie.”
“So tell me, why do we lie?”
“Ask your brother,” he said. “He’ll know all about the Noble Lie.”
“Have you ever been married, Conor?”
“No.”
On Friday afternoon when she got home, there was a message on the answering machine. It was rambling, disjointed, the musings of someone who’d been drinking heavily. JC said he was still in Huntsville. He had called at one o’clock, when he knew she wouldn’t be there. Touching base without the peril of engagement. Still, she felt mildly grateful for the call.